Flying On Clipped Wings
by Speciosus Nihilum
Summary: Lieut. Aurelle seems to be hiding a lot behind a thick French accent and moody behavior, and for a good reason. The only question is, what is it she's concealing?
1. Shrouded in Mystery

_A/N: Hello there. Thank you for checking out this fanfiction. I apologize if this first chapter is a bit vague, but I promise everything will be explained later and if you have questions, feel free to message me._

_Other than that, I hope you enjoy it . . . and well, there's really nothing else I can think to say that won't constitute as rambling. So . . . happy reading!_

_Disclaimer__: I don't own and didn't create Hellsing._

* * *

**London is dreary.** I suppose it always has been, even in my thoughts before I knew its streets or the many faces of its people. I had heard countless stories of it in France and in the United States, of its fantastic fashion industry and busy streets. Though no one really mentions the rain clouds—except for those that live there.

I've tried to get used to it for the sake of my friends and family, but I miss the sunlight miserably. The grey mist hanging over my head is a constant reminder of the veil I live under, and how it will never be okay until it is all over.

I can still remember my past before London vividly. It haunts my dreams and plagues me in conversation, for a single word can spark a memory and leave me sidetracked. It hurts rabidly when the holes are reopened, and it is excruciating to try and hide that pain from others—especially when I'm reminded in the middle of a session with my unit.

I can't erase the thought of my legs being severed from my mind, or losing my left arm. I can't wriggle myself free of the anguish I felt or how I nearly went into convulsions from it. I suppose that there are some things you never forget, even if you get a second chance.

Still, I've gone through a few months here at Hellsing and have succeeded in using my new alias to its fullest. No one here knows of my past besides me, and I guess that's a good thing. I'm sure that Sir Integra should know a bit more than my name and rank, though.

All anyone seems to know is that I'm Lieut. Lynette Aurelle, and that I'm an American with a French accent (which is a long story I am saving for later). They may also know that I have a grudge against vampires for making my life a living hell from birth, and I'm fairly strong for my age and height. However, that's about it.

So, I'll attempt to fill you in, beginning with my start here in Hellsing.

* * *

"**I can't believe you! You are so narrowminded!" **I could barely keep my voice from turning into a shrill shout.

"I am not narrowminded. I just have more experience than you. Take this advice, girl—you don't look fit for this life," he tried convincing me, but I wasn't going to stand it.

"Oh, really? Well, if you had seen me just a year ago, you would have—" I stopped myself mid-sentence. No, no one was supposed to know about that, at least not yet . . . maybe he wouldn't notice.

"I would have what, girl?" Damn it, he caught me. Think, think. . . .

"You simply would have been shocked." I wasn't supposed to lie, I remembered; freedom from sin was essential and above all else. That was going to make this hard on me—I was a rather impressive liar normally, and my coverups had saved my ass more than just a few times.

He seemed satisfied with my answer, as if I had proven his assumptions correct. I switched the subject before I slipped up on the whole lying deal.

"Anyway, I'm not an NCO, Capt. Bernadette, so would you please address me correctly?"

"My apologies, Lieut. Aurelle. It slipped my memory, with you looking nothing more than a foot soldier." He smirked again. "And I'm also superior to you."

I scowled. "That must make you so proud, to have a higher rank than a girl. Congratulations."

Suddenly, my best friend of nearly a decade, Vanessa Pierpont, whirled on weightless feet to my side. I suppose I didn't mention her earlier . . . she is the one other person that knows of my earlier life.

She looked at the captain with prying eyes.

"Nice pick," she whispered in her phantasmal breath, unseen by everyone but me.

With that in mind, I decided to ignore her. The last anyone needed was to think the new lieutenant was mentally unstable by claiming to see and associate with ghosts. No one would likely believe me, thereon ending my career. I would be locked in an asylum in one of those tight, unbearable straitjackets and fed pills until I truly did go mad—from the medication and treatment. I might even start begging for a kitten, though I'd probably be only allowed flies and spiders into my room, which I would eat appropriately for some type of nourishment.

I may become the female embodiment of Renfield, basically, though I doubt any doctors in the psychiatric ward would be as kind or intrigued as John Seward.

No, I did not think I wanted anyone to know of Vanessa.

. . . .That sums up my first day, I might say, with the exception of various dully regular events. The only part I left out was my encounter with Hellsing's prized wildcard. Just meeting him sent chills down my spine. . . .

We met in the hallway, when I was walking toward my room for the night. My body was worn from the stressing commencement of a career for a probable few years, and I knew the days following would not be any easier. I could feel my feet beginning to drag along the glossy, waxed, paneled flooring.

I think he tried sneaking up on me and, despite the years I've spent trying to fend off heinous beings, I was caught off-guard. I nearly jumped out of my scruffy army boots.

"You're the mysterious new lieutenant?" I could hear the grin in his voice as my stomach began to scrunch.

I calmed myself before responding.

"Yes, and I hear you're the vampire of whom everyone is so terrified." I couldn't keep my tone from sounding condescending, or my feet from moving closer to my destination.

"I do suppose that is true." He was close behind me and matched my clanking heels with complete silence. "Though your heart isn't racing nearly as fast as I would expect of a human."

I sneered, "I guess you don't scare me all that much."

"Death doesn't scare you, Lieut.?" This seemed to amuse him.

"No, death does not scare me. Life is horrifying enough on its own." I retorted, "And you are not death, Sir, though it is that which you exude."

He guffawed. "Bold words for a newcomer . . . then again, the French do seem to have an inflated view of themselves—I suppose it is acquired at conception. The mere embryos are superior in race."

"I'm American." Jerk.

". . .With that accent?"

I finally reached my door—"Goodnight, Sir"—and promptly slammed it in his face.

"The nerve!" My jaw was clenched, I realized, so I let out a deep breath to relax it. "Calm down, Lieut. It's just another leech—you can handle it."

"I'm a 'leech?' A bit more sophisticated than bloodsucker, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to disagree. I'm not your average vampire, Lieut."

I nearly jumped from my skin before I whirled around to glare. "How on Earth did you get in here?"

He grinned—his teeth were an uncannily dazzling white. "I told you I'm extraordinary."

I unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a grimace. "If you're so wondrous, feel free to dismiss yourself the same way you found your way in, Mr. Extraordinary."

"That's quite all right. The night is young, it's a beautiful evening, and our conversation has only just begun. I don't know why Miss Hellsing isn't quite sure about you—I'm starting to like you already."

Oh, that's exactly how I feel about you, I murmured mentally.

"Huh, that's strange," he mumbled in dissatisfaction. I didn't care enough to ask.

"Getting back to the point: the night is young to you, Sir, but it is growing fiercely old to me. Unlike you, I don't have the privilege of sleeping all day. I don't mean to be rude," I stretched the truth a bit but not worthy of punishment, "but I'm exhausted and I tend to be a right bitch when I am."

"I couldn't tell."

"Hilarious. Now could you leave before I start getting very angry? I was told before it's not healthy for my blood pressure."

"Why, of course."

His smile did not fade as he added, "I would not want you to sacrifice your immaculate well-being by being irritated with my presence. I know how us vampires have a tendency to put fragile humans in danger simply by speaking to them."

I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore the mockery. "Then you understand."

"I believe I do." He reached out a hand and essayed a palm on my shoulder before leaving, but I flinched away and backed to my closet—I was not about to let a vampire touch me, let alone one like this.

He didn't look offended. "Sweet dreams, Lieut. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other."

I can't wait. I glowered as he dematerialized through my wall and left me to myself in the hollowly lit room. I could already tell this ordeal was going to be bundles of fun.

On that thought, I carelessly ignored the tension at the base of my neck and free-fell onto the bed. The soft mattress cushioned the impact of my body, and said comfort erased my concern for the gunpowder-scented clothes I wore and the tightness of my boots.

Before I knew it, I had fallen victim to my dark subconscious.


	2. Dreaming of Memories

_A/N: Thank you to everyone that has been reading this story so far. I hope you like this next chapter, it's a bit longer than the first. Thank you for giving up some of your time to read my fanfiction; I truly couldn't be more grateful._

* * *

**A few weeks later. . . .**

_I could feel the weight of his hard, cold body pressing against mine fervidly, causing me to squirm relentlessly beneath him. His hands skimmed along the length of my body, gentle and chilly. I heard myself trying to scream, but the sounds were muffled by his lips and laughter—and partially from the staggering heartbeat drumming in my ears._

_He tried pushing his sickeningly gelid tongue into my mouth, but I bit it just as he passed my lips. That seemed to aggravate him, for he muttered a curse in French and then rammed me against the headboard. The scene began to blur as tears started to well in my eyes._

"_Fine, you don't want me to play nice, girl, I won't," he sneered, exposing pearly white—fangs!_

"_Monsieur?" I asked hysterically. Was he. . . . no, could he be? I thought they were a myth. _

_I had once read Dracula by Bram Stoker, who based Dracula off of the historically nonfictional Vlad "Ţepeş", or "the Impaler" in Romanian. But as all information read, Stoker's Dracula is a fabricated embodiment of Vlad, so that meant the vampire and his race were fictional . . . right?_

"_You look shocked, girl," Monsieur Bossuet whispered with an irritating grin. "Are you really that surprised? By what other account did you think you woke up dizzy and pale?"_

"_You've been . . . feeding on me, Monsieur?" My voice quivered with the query, my young mind trying to accept such an outrageous claim._

_He answered with a dark, guttural chuckle. "It truly should be a compliment, girl—your blood is the sweetest I've tasted in years . . . not that its virginal sugary flavor is still present."_

"_Get off of me!" I screeched, kicking and flailing my arms as viciously as I could manage with my lack of energy. Alas, he overpowered me with seemingly no effort, so I just continued to shriek loudly while tears streaked down my raw cheeks._

_Suddenly, Monsieur Bossuet held me tightly with my head back, so my neck was stretched enough for his mouth to suck as much blood as he wanted. The whole time I felt my veins sting, subconsciously sensing the lifeblood being vacuumed out from within me. His cold, wet breath against my neck made me sick to my stomach, feeling utterly useless and unclean._

_Then, I saw a black, jagged-edged demon at the edge of the room, hiding in the shadows. It was staring at me with all twelve of its red eyes, smiling a sinister, side-splitting smile. . . ._

* * *

**My eyes flittered open as I propelled myself up from the pillows** and a screech of horror escaped my mouth. I clasped my hands to my lips and tried to calm myself, not wanting to dwell any longer on the memories.

I was slathered in sweat, but I was freezing as I curled up beneath the thick sheets of my bed. I glanced up at the clock above my armoire, and it said it was nearly two in the morning.

I had only been sleeping for about an hour, but it felt like ages.

The dream had been just as graphic as it had been when it happened, about nine years ago. I had only been a small girl then, just fourteen years of age and fresh out of the local orphanage near Monsieur Bossuet's mansion in Nice, France. I had been petite, but not especially slight—my arms were always tired from strenuous maids' work, and legs toned from outrunning the nuns at the orphanage.

Still, I was small and young—too small to deal with such evils with strength, and too young to have to learn of such monsters.

It was eerie how even in the dream, and even though it was long ago, I could feel Monsieur on me again and hear his voice crystal-clear. He was an attractive man, definitely, with black hair speckled with grey that left an added distinguished tone to his appearance. He was in his mid-forties and had a beautiful, seemingly ageless wife ("ageless" for now obvious reasons, of course).

He had been extraordinarily kind to me—in fact, he was the only person to come to the orphanage and want to employ me, adopting me as well. Not many people wanted teenagers, after all.

I shuddered at the thought. If I had perhaps stayed in that orphanage a day longer, or if Monsieur Bossuet had picked a different girl, I probably wouldn't have been sitting in that bed as Lieut. Lynette Aurelle. I would just be another face in the crowd, leading a normal, vampire-less life . . . and I probably would have gotten the chance to lose my chastity willingly.

I decided not to think about that anymore and went into the bathroom to take a long, hot shower to calm my nerves before getting ready for the day.

* * *

**It was difficult to perform casually that day,** as it would be for many days to follow. I kept thinking back to the dream, especially when I heard the word "vampire" mentioned in a sentence, or when I passed small groups of soldiers discussing the strategies by which they nailed the latest girl—be it a whore or a one-night stand.

My head was pounding with a headache that didn't seem to want to leave, and wherever I turned I swore I saw Monsieur Bossuet's face again. It was especially difficult to talk to Capt. Bernadette—his voice and accent were uncomfortably similar to the master of my teenage years.

_You're just being paranoid, Lieutenant—get a grip_, I told myself repeatedly.

I was tempted on an extreme level to beg Capt. Bernadette for a cigarette, just to settle myself and stop thinking so irrationally. He was bound to have a few on hand—practically every time I saw him he had a smoke between his lips.

However, I was positive smoking wouldn't sit well with God, so I had to resist and simply resort to wringing my hands every now and then—which didn't work as well as a cigarette would, but I knew that wasn't an option.

"Cold, Lieutenant?" Capt. Bernadette had the audacity to ask with a self-satisfied smile, cigarette perched in his mouth.

"I'm just feeling a little uptight, Captain. Nothing serious." Goodness, how I felt like ripping out that smoke and inhaling its pleasantly noxious fumes myself.

Still, I contained myself and just went about my duties until it was time for me to retire at the end of the day.

* * *

**My night was a little easier to handle.** I was actually able to change into pajamas without an undead interruption. I hastily removed the smoke-smelling uniform and washed the scent from my body, which also helped me to relax a bit more. Then, I went back into my room wearing plain, turquoise-colored pajamas, my hair in a sloppy bun, and my glasses.

I didn't much like the way my glasses seemed to distort the size of my head, so I wore contacts during the day. However, I wasn't prescribed the type of contacts you can sleep in, so I donned the dreadful, medium-thickness-framed glasses at night.

I scanned over the small stack of books I had sitting in the bottom of my armoire, behind the wardrobe doors. I found _Perfume _by Patrick Süskind, which I had bought not a day ago and dubbed it seemingly intriguing. I picked up the book and curled up beneath my sheets, the small lamp on my night stand emitting its muted light.

I didn't even get past the second page before I heard a soft, virtually inaudible sifting sound. I glanced up from the book to stare at that repulsive vampire again, sitting at the edge of my bed.

"Interesting choice," he murmured, "though I wouldn't quite call it a classic."

I felt my skin beginning to recoil, but I bit my lip and tried to remain at ease. "Well, we are all entitled to our opinions, though we don't necessarily have to express them."

I suppose the vampire didn't sense my implication—that, or he just brushed it off—for he smiled slyly as he said, "I had no idea you wear glasses, Lieutenant."

"I wear contacts most of the time," I explained rather brusquely.

"Why on Earth would you want to do that, Lieutenant? Glasses add a refined touch to a person's appearance," his grin stretched, "and enhances a woman's desirability without a doubt."

"Then why don't you go admire your master, nosferatu? She looks far better in eyeglasses than I do."

"She instructed me specifically to leave her be for the remainder of the night. Her desk is cluttered with paperwork, denoting the long night ahead," he looked apologetic for a moment, as well as distantly consumed in his own thoughts.

"I'm sorry," I sincerely whispered. Then, I affixed, "You must have a lot of energy from sleeping the entire day, but as you may know, I'm quite tired and aren't really in the mood for company."

"I won't bother you long."

He seemed genuine enough, so I didn't persecute him as I did normally. Besides, even Jesus wasn't rude to Satan—a bit intolerant of he, naturally. He even raised his voice at Satan, but not once was he rude.

Now was as good a time as ever to be learning lessons from the Bible, judging by the fix I had gotten myself into.

"Fine," I exhaled out of exhaustion. "Why is it you've come here, . . . .?"

"Alucard," he finished my sentence. "I apologize for not properly introducing myself earlier."

"I hold no contempt for that reason . . . Monsieur Alucard." _On the basis of some other things, however. . . ._

"As you are most likely aware, you are considered quite the enigma by everyone in this organization," he began. "That being said, I've been doing a bit of research on my own and would like to know . . . do you perhaps have any other special abilities, other than the capacity to see spirits, Lieut. Aurelle?"

I felt my jaw drop in the most unladylike manner. "How do you know I. . . .?"

He chortled faintly in a deep voice that I suppose might be attractive if the being it belonged to wasn't so repugnant. "I'm undead, Lieutenant . . . did you forget? The deceased can see other deceased, whether they be in spiritual or physical form."

I glanced over to Vanessa, who was quietly minding her own business for once at the corner of my room. She lounged in a suede armchair, flipping through a book titled _Titus Groan_ by Mervyn Peake. She seemed to be in her own little world, oblivious to the conversation taking place on the opposite end of the room.

I threw my eyes back to Monsieur Alucard, while pointing at Vanessa incredulously, and whispered, "Are you saying you can . . . see her?"

He nodded, then cocked his head in the direction of Vanessa. "She seems to like playing dirty tricks on unsuspecting humans that aren't mediums or otherwise psychically endowed. And she also has far better taste in literature than you."

"Have you been spying on us, vampire?" This being did not deserve a name as far as I was concerned.

"No more than any other human, Lieutenant, so don't think you're something especially enthralling. One gets bored after a few centuries of coexisting with the living; sometimes, you'll do almost anything for a thrill," he sighed.

Then, he continued, "It's gotten rather peaceful around here at eventide, unfortunately. So, in an effort to cease from going completely mad, I've adopted the habit of monitoring the simple lives of humans. Your species' mannerisms are truly quite peculiar."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd stop playing fly on the wall when it concerns Vanessa and me," I said simply. "Eavesdropping is a sin, you know."

To that remark he guffawed. "You truly think I hold any regard to your Lord's set of rules? Heaven's gates won't open for me, dear, so I try not to remind myself of that as much as possible—which includes not considering what is dubbed religiously wrong."

"I do believe it's held on a moral standard as well."

"Morals are hardly ever the same for two people, Lieut. Aurelle. My morals, for instance, have nothing to do with religion."

_Which reminds me that I'm not supposed to be talking to you_, I reflected on my present situation silently within the confines of my mind.

Suddenly, Vanessa's head sprung up from its reading position. Her eyes, though transparent like the rest of her weightless body, were seemingly glossy with tears. "This book is so depressing! Why did you buy something so sad? I mean, the guy's library just got burnt down to the ground, and reading was his only outlet for his hell of a life. . . ." she sniffled.

Her eyes then caught on the vampire at the foot of my bed, so she looked to me with bemusement. "Hey, what's he doing in here?"

"I'm just asking your master a few questions, ghost girl," he turned to her and answered, stupefying Vanessa more than before.

In fact, she exclaimed quite loudly, "You can see me!"

I think if she were alive she would've had a heart attack.

She was struck momentarily speechless after that, so I decided to cover for her. "I'm not her master, vampire; she sort of just follows me around. Also, her name is Vanessa, not 'ghost girl.'"

"Well, if you can't call me by my name, why should I respect you or your friends?" he retorted, to which I sighed. I really wasn't in the mood for debating.

"Fine, Monsieur Alucard," I said rather scornfully. "Now can you please leave? I've grown extremely tired in the short time you've spent with me, with no offense to your captivation."

"I suppose all humans need their sleep," he mused, then lifted from the bed and turned on his heel. "Pleasant dreaming, Lieutenant—hopefully more enjoyable than as of late, do you not agree?"

That comment nettled me with interest immediately. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You need your rest, Lieutenant. Perhaps we may continue this conversation later," was all he said before vanishing from my room, leaving me more peeved than ever.


	3. It's the End for Now

_A/N: I'm sorry I haven't posted a chapter in a while, but I've gotten a little lazy with updating due to fatigue . . . courtesy of the homework assignments that spill gallons of my daily lifeblood. By the time I heal up, it's either midnight or I'm plumb exhausted. That being said, I hope you like this new chapter._

* * *

**Some couple nights afterward . . .**

_I ran out of the mansion as fast as my tired legs could carry me. My maid's uniform was stained with red, and my hair was disheveled and matted to my face by blood, sweat, and tears. I was sniveling as the murder scenes were seemingly imprinted onto my retinas. _

_There was the decapitated body of my master, Monsieur Bossuet; the rippled, punctured figure of his beautiful blonde wife; the pupil-less, floating body of Marguerite, the seamstress, who hovered lifelessly under some sick manipulation . . . and my fellow maid, Brigitte, lying dead on the staircase, severed at her torso. Each of those people's images haunted my mind as I walked onto the street, but especially frightening was seeing those black demons._

_I guess I was so absorbed in thought that I did not realize I had knocked into someone on the street until they blared a vulgar phrase toward me._

"_Désolé," I murmured again and again as I became caught in the sidewalk's traffic._

_Suddenly, I realized I was shivering, although it well above cold weather. My eyes fogged over, and I heard a strangled noise from somewhere close. It took me a minute before I realized it was my voice._

_Not knowing what else to do in order to get away from everyone (and not get ran over in the street), I retreated to an alleyway nearby. I dragged my bum leg, which I'd hurt by tripping and having Madame Bossuet kick me in the thigh. I re-injured the leg by falling down a staircase and ramming my knee into one of the steps, then broke my fall on a huge chunk of ceramic from a shattered pot on the landing. Of course, I broke my fall with my shin and received a deep gash by doing so._

_Limping pathetically, I sought relief by resting on a cold brick wall. My leg wasn't bleeding anymore, but the blood was itchy and drying on skin that throbbed with pain. I felt myself beginning to convulse into tears, so I held myself to try and stop. I didn't want to attract attention, not that anyone would really care. . . ._

"_Are you hurt badly, Mademoiselle?" I heard an unfamiliar voice ask. _

_I looked up to see a tall man, probably a few years younger than Monsieur Bossuet. He was wearing a black suit and a blue silk tie. That was very odd, considering the setting. However, he still seemed casual, for he was leaning slightly backward with his hands in his pockets._

"_I don't think so, Monsieur." I had been taught not to talk to strangers, but for some reason I spoke to this man._

"_Let me see," he walked over, and leant down to look at my leg, which I held awkwardly so I didn't stretch out the ripped skin on my knee. "I am a practiced doctor, of course."_

_He put his face rather close to the cuts. "They do not look deep." He then grabbed my leg harshly and pulled me down. "I could always fix that, of course."_

_My first reaction should have been to scream "FIRE!," seeing as people never look to see if you're hurt if you scream "HELP!" I suppose a fire could put their own lives in danger, which is why they grow a heart to care._

_I just sat there, though, with a strange man next to me. My tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of my mouth with absurdly thick peanut butter._

_The man got to his feet and lifted me up, apologizing for his rude behavior. _

"_This hunger gets out of control, sometimes. You see, one of my patients bit me on the arm this morning, obviously angry that I was trying to pin her down and give her a sedative. _

"_Ever since a few hours after, I've been craving —" he hesitated "—blood. I had to leave the hospital before I could harm someone._

"_I tried to stay home with my wife until this thirst subsided, but I'm afraid it never did. I even tried eating something else, but all it did was give me throat pains. I just left my house a minute ago."_

_I did not know what to think of this man's speech. What was this, craving blood? Again, another ludicrous reference to Dracula. Had the centuries-old novel suddenly been revived by a motion picture so believable that people began thinking they've been infected? Or did someone recently write an overwhelming book or novella, maybe an editorial or short story?_

_After all, Monsieur Bossuet didn't really bite me . . . did he? I couldn't even remember. . . ._

"_You don't believe me, do you, Mademoiselle?" the doctor sounded disappointed. "I didn't think you would."_

"_It just doesn't make any sense." I tried justifying my doubt. "Vampires are of fiction. If they were real, surely we would have an epidemic of unexplainable blood loss by now."_

"_I know it sounds crazy," he sighed, "but it is true."_

_He still looked sad when he said abruptly, "Have you read __Night__ by Elie Wiesel, my girl?"_

"_Oui, I have." I remembered reading the depressing story of Eliezer's experience in Auschwitz, true to the last heartbreaking drop. I had cried many times while reading the book as I cursed the world for allowing the Holocaust to happen. _

_I then cursed the world again for letting it happen again, even if on a smaller scale of people. There are many stories of genocide. Some go unlearned by many, like the tragedy of Rwanda's civil war, where more than 800,000 people were slaughtered in three months. There had to be many I didn't know of either, and I was angry for being so oblivious._

_More important, I knew I would never forget the death camps or its victims after reading Night. That would be impossible._

"_Do you recall reading about Moishe the Beadle?" the man then asked me, breaking me from my thoughts._

_It took me a moment, but I remembered. "He came back to Sighet from the beginning of the Holocaust's terror. After he escaped, he told Eliezer and many others of what had happened to him. Only no one believed him."_

"_And all of Sighet was invaded eventually by the Hungarian police. The Jews that refused to believe Moishe were sentenced to a similar fate," the man added. "Many of them, however, were not able to escape."_

"_Yeah," I agreed softly. If they had listened, perhaps many people would have been saved._

"_Mademoiselle," the man whispered, as if in deep thought, and looked to the ground. Then, he raised his head a bit to reach my eyes. "I do not want to be Moishe in this situation. Please, don't doubt me so fully. Just as there will always be Nazis—even if they are not active—there are other monsters out there._

"_Granted, I don't know you like a daughter, but I've met you and I've talked to you. Now, there will always be part of me that remembers you. And I can at least find a way to stop this pain knowing that I've warned someone. I can rest knowing my job is done, though it is up to you whether you believe me."_

_I could not look away from his eyes, though they pained me so. Here, in front of me, was a grown man on the verge of tears, yet I was enthralled. There was simply something in his gaze that caused my heart to break in two . . . something that made me say the next three words: _

"_I believe you."_

_He smiled briefly, then flinched with a grunt as he hid his face. "It's very hard for me to resist tearing out your throat . . . I'll leave before I get the chance. Thank you for listening, Mademoiselle."_

_He looked up. "I pray you are luckier than I."_

_Then, he disappeared._

* * *

**I woke up in tears.**

I remembered that man so clearly now, as if it were yesterday. His sallow face, puffy eyes that glistened with a thousand more tears of blood. His greying hair was tousled, pristine suit wrinkled, the sleeve over his forearm ripped to expose a bite mark. In my dream, however, I did not notice the disarray of his appearance; I only saw the refinement.

The only difference is that the Elie Wiesel's _Night _was actually very recently published in English under that title. It had many versions before, though, and it was an earlier version I had read . . . and it had been in French. Perhaps my subconscious just got mixed up. . . .

I told Vanessa to remind me of Moishe if I ever considered converting to a vampire, though I did not give her an explanation (she'd read _Night_ a few days ago and was confused about Moishe's importance). I took a shower to get ready for the day. I did not report for my duties, however, until I recited a prayer for the man I'd met at the young age of fourteen.

* * *

"**Capt. Bernadette, I've been meaning to ask you something,"** I began my questioning of the man a few minutes after the soldiers scurried off into the mess hall, just as twilight was fading. Capt. Bernadette had lagged behind, finishing off a nub of a cigarette.

"What?" he spoke dismissively.

"What exactly are we preparing against?" I buried my head into the shadows, not wanting to show how red my face had gotten.

A lieutenant should know these things . . . but I had missed that part of the interview with Sir Integra. Actually, I fell asleep halfway through her explanation, due to an extreme case of a jet lag. I still wondered how I'd seized the position.

"It depends. Lots of things."

"Well," I sighed as I prepared to clarify, "I know we are to fight the living dead. And Iscariot's Catholics, whenever they get in our way or cause a problem. And we must protect the crown from any and all threats . . . but my men have been a bit edgy lately. They say there's rumor going around. . . ."

"Which one?" he asked with a smile. "Really, Lieutenant, don't worry about it. If something else pops up for us to take care of, you'll know about it."

Capt. Bernadette stared at me for a second and patted me on the shoulder. "They're just rumors, Lieutenant. Relax for once."

_I would, but cigarettes are off-limits_, I thought sulkily. "Sorry, I'm still quite new at this," is what I said.

"Six years in the military and you're still 'new at this'?" He seemed to find that funny.

_Non, I'm still new to people believing me when I supposedly "talk crazy_," I thought to myself again . . . and once more, said something differently entirely. "Good night, Captain. I'm off."

* * *

**Vanessa was out on the town** for the night in search of other single ghosts, so I had settled into bed with another book I found in my armoire. It was a compilation of Edgar Allan Poe's many short stories and poems, and I had settled upon "For Annie" to read.

My glasses began slipping down my bridge as I read over the poem, lost in the words as I often became. It wasn't until I heard a deep voice across from me that I was brought back into reality.

I looked up to see Monsieur Alucard, quoting the last two stanzas of poetry—the exact lines I was reading as I read them.

I would have dismissed him if he hadn't recited the lines with such emotion. Because he'd done so, I actually was on the verge of tears—it seemed that I was able to feel the emotions Poe intended to express.

"Do you enjoy Poe, Monsieur Alucard?" I tried asking as casually as I could without my voice cracking.

"He is a far better choice than your last pick," he somewhat answered. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I suppose," I whispered, sniffling as discreetly as possible.

"You gave up on Süskind." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Non. I have a habit of reading various things at once," I explained. "I'd like to think it's something I inherited from my grandfather, or maybe even my father."

He gave me an odd look, so I added something further. "I'm not really sure of my family heritage. Just after I was born, my mother . . . well, she shot herself after hearing my father had been killed in war. I spent the majority of my childhood in a Catholic orphanage."

"You were raised Catholic," he said skeptically until I nodded, which seemed to confirm his assumption. "What caused you to become a Protestant?"

"Mostly, I think I was just being rebellious," I said shortly after realizing how much I'd just revealed in a matter of seconds. "Enough of story hour for tonight, non?"

He smiled. "You are more interesting than you appear, Lieutenant."

I scowled and replied, "You're too kind."

"I know. Honestly, I thought the only interesting thing was you're a bit more 'endowed' than most French women," he mentioned vaguely with a deviant smirk. "In fact, your assets were the only two reasons I believed you're American."

_It's great to know my breasts aren't distracting_, I sighed mentally. "Good night, Monsieur. You can see your own way out. . . ."

* * *

**So ended the redundant chunk of my life** as part of the Hellsing Organization. It is time for the next chapter, which is much more interesting than this ridiculous gabble, I assure you. Let me help you out:

Sooner than I could have guessed, my life changed completely. My past as not Lieut. Lynette Aurelle but as Miss Soleil Etoile Devereux was exposed. All I'd kept cleverly concealed was cast into the open before my very eyes, with no way to recover the mess.

My duties became harder to handle and temptations rose from the darkness I tried to stay away from. In a quick, reckless blow, my life plummeted from where I stood . . . and stopped where I once gazed sympathetically. I found myself questioning everything I had once stood for and changing my morals almost absolutely.

I found myself wanting something I'd cursed. I found myself in an existence I'd despised. Most important, I found true happiness.

. . . .Let's begin after I fetch a glass of water, shall we?


	4. Another Long, Hard Day

_A/N: Sorry it's been so long since I last updated. Nonetheless, this is my longest chapter so far for this story, and I hope it was worth the wait. Enjoy!_

* * *

**My apologies to whomever was disappointed that I was suddenly thirsty.** However, one gets a bit dehydrated after sitting in front of one's laptop for hours, retelling one's past few months in the Hellsing Organization in explicit, personal detail. That being said, I also got a bit distracted on my way back here after quenching my little craving.

Vanessa stopped me for a moment to ask if she could bring her newest boyfriend, Dempsey, over later tonight to meet me. Apparently, this Dempsey character was quite notorious during the Victorian era in England before he died . . . for what, I do not know. I suppose I will ask him later when we meet.

Also, upon finishing my conversation with Vanessa, I was walking with much refinement until I tripped over a thick, black cord running before me. I spilled the entire of glass of water down my front (I was bringing a glass back to my room as a precaution to impending thirst).

Laughter then rose around me as the cord turned into—you probably guessed it—Monsieur Alucard.

. . . Need I explain more?

Anyway, I changed into dry clothing after arriving back here, in my room, and I am now sitting before my laptop, typing this for you to read. Now, without any further delay, I shall explain the changing of my life that happened only some odd days ago. Let me begin:

* * *

**I woke with a grumble to a room that wasn't mine.** I knew this because the furniture was different, the bed sheets were thinner, and the pillows weren't as soft. There was also a bit of clutter, unlike my room, which was too bare to be messy. There was nothing familiar about my surroundings at all.

I woke with a grumble due to my physical condition. My bones felt like they were made of stone, and my stomach was expertly tied in knots. My mouth was abnormally dry and tasted disgusting. Also, my skin was clammy and I felt oddly weak. I struggled to keep my eyes open against the painful lighting of the strange room.

_Dear Lord: I do not appreciate this cruel joke_, I thought as I closed my eyes. _When I open my eyes again, please let me be back in my room . . . Amen._

I reopened my eyes, but I was still in the same weird room. Only this time I realized that there was someone whistling as they took a shower in the adjacent bathroom. I also realized that I wasn't wearing any clothes.

I cannot tell you how fast I jumped from the bed and scrambled to my feet. The entire time my only thoughts consisted of the word "merde" repeated multiple times to myself while I scanned the room for my clothes. I eventually found my jeans stuffed behind the radiator (which was off, thankfully) and my tee shirt under a coffee table. My bra and underwear were fairly easily to find: one hung from the ceiling fan while the other was looped around a doorknob.

By the time I had retrieved my clothing, I was worn from the rush and my lack of energy. I looked for my shoes (sandals, more appropriately) quickly, but could not find them and just decided I'd buy a new pair later. I had my shirt on, bra and underwear in hand (I did not have time for them, you see), and was just about to finish zippering my jeans when the bathroom door opened.

I was thankful for the lack of speed-hindering shoes when I sprinted toward the door in record time and actually managed to run out before the washer could see me.

I tucked my undergarments under my arm, in an attempt to look inconspicuous, while I walked past the receptionist at the apartment complex's front desk. Still, I could feel her eyeing me like I was some sort of crazed looney. I kept my eyes away from hers and headed out the door to see my bright red Ford Focus waiting for me graciously at the sidewalk.

There was only one thing that could ruin this picture-perfect escape: I didn't have my keys.

I nearly bursted into tears. I had to go back up into that apartment, look the stranger in the eye, and explain why I ran out on him/her, all before I could take back my keys. Any and all dignity I held for myself would be depleted . . . especially because I couldn't remember how I managed to find my way to this complex. I also got the strange feeling that I had a hangover.

_Lieutenant . . . why?_ I thought to myself sadly.

I walked back into the building with my head hung low. So low that I bumped into someone.

As I lifted my head up to apologize, I saw my keys dangling before me, the key ring hooked onto an index finger. I looked past the keys to see the face of Capt. Bernadette, who smelled faintly of aftershave. His red hair was damp and skin was slightly pink . . . as if he had taken a shower only minutes ago.

He took one of my hands and dropped in the keys. Then, he dropped my sandals onto the floor before me from his other hand. He smiled. "You take 'one-night stand' a bit literally, eh?"

My tongue curled up and lodged into my throat, making it impossible for me to speak. I suppose it was noticeable: "What, you can't talk now? Why the nerves this morning?"

I was about to use the old 'shell shock is finally getting to me' excuse, but I decided to opt for, "I'm not myself until I have a cup of black coffee."

To that, he chuckled a bit, released my hand, and patted me on the shoulder. "You should get going, then. I'll see you later, non?"

"Sure." I forced myself to smile, and although it felt weak and sleepy, it was enough to convince the captain.

Once he started heading back to his room, I slipped on my sandals and hopped into my Focus. Luckily, I recognized the street I was on once I stared at it for a while and was able to take off toward the Hellsing headquarters. I was there in a matter of minutes, seeing as Capt. Bernadette's apartment complex wasn't very far away. Upon reaching my destination, I dashed through the empty hallways to my own room, unseen by everyone but Walter.

I removed the worn clothes from my body and dished them, along with my undergarments, into the laundry basket next to my armoire before heading into the bathroom. I took out my contacts, which were practically glued to my eyeballs from the current lack of moisture. Then, I took a reasonably long, calming shower. After all, I had a lot to think about:

All right, considering I woke up in Capt. Bernadette's flat, in his bed, completely—I shivered—naked, I could only think of one thing that had to happen the night before. I nearly collapsed and smacked my head into the shower's faucet thinking about it, but fortunately, I was able to grapple the sturdy soap rack for balance. I then decided that I had to say it to myself, simply and honestly, if I wanted to make it through the day:

I had slept with my captain.

I must have gotten a bit tipsy somehow last night (that part I was still working on). Then, I must have met Capt. Bernadette somewhere in Hellsing's, and, in my drunken state, consented to . . . well, you know. He took me to his apartment, we stripped bare, and we clashed our sweaty, naked bodies together for hours beneath the moon. . . .

_All right, no need to overdo it—you're already nauseous_, I told myself as I tried erasing the mental imagery.

Once my stomach settled down to just nearly bearable, I realized that such an . . . activity . . . could have really happened. Despite how aggravating Capt. Bernadette could be, he was an attractive man. With just enough lack of self-control and rational thinking, it was extremely probable that I'd . . . give myself to him. To help support my theory, I shall remind you of my hangover and the well-known fact that alcohol inhibits common sense.

_Well, this is a story that is sure to amuse my grandchildren,_ I thought sarcastically. _It would end perfectly with the words, "So children, always remember to say no to drugs. If you don't, you might end up getting demoted–or even deported–by the armed forces for being over the military's blood alcohol content level. Worst still, you could suffer a hangover and achy pelvis from knocking boots with a superior officer."_

I wondered if I would be known as "the Hot Grandma" from then on. Maybe the kids would even go to school and tell their classmates and teachers. The entire town would think me a promiscuous lieutenant in my "earlier years". . . . Or maybe I was just thinking too far ahead into the future, too far into the extremes.

After all, who was to say that I would even live to have grandkids?

I began trying to calm down as I stepped out of the shower. Sleeping with Capt. Bernadette couldn't hurt me that badly . . . I mean, yes, I could've become pregnant; yes, I could've developed some infection or disease (God only knows how many women he'd been with, and how much protection was used); yes, I could've lost my position as an officer and be sent back to America; and yes, I could've become the laughing stock of all of Hellsing . . . but really, what were the odds?

In case you couldn't see through the utter sarcasm in that sentence, I nearly began to have a mental breakdown onto my bathroom floor. The only thing that stopped me was knowing that my reputation as a solid, well-composed lieutenant would be crushed—and the fact that I was queasy.

I rushed out of the bathroom as quickly as I could without falling over in a vomiting episode. I realized that because my eyes were bloodshot and tired, I would need to wear my glasses onto the grounds that day. Also, I had to try and act the least hung-over as possible, just to make sure no one suspected that I drank the previous night. Before I attempted at a coverup, however, I was going to need information on how many people heard of my little affair with Capt. Bernadette, and exactly how much they knew.

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," I sighed, "but I'm not going to like it."

I placed on my thick glasses, slipped into my khaki skirt, wriggled into a black tank top, and then eased myself into a medal-adorned jacket with Hellsing's insignia on the left breast pocket. The jacket matched the skirt, so when I buttoned it, I looked like a huge tan glob. Still, the jacket curved to my body, so I supposed it didn't look too bad—the skirt, however, fell to my knees in a loose, shapeless way. That was also a good thing, though, for I was given plenty of room for movement.

Once I had my boots on, I went into the bathroom, took off my glasses, squirted Visine into my eyes, and applied a small amount of waterproof eyeliner and mascara. I was past my teenage years and had outgrown acne, so I didn't usually use coverup. However, I did keep it for emergencies, and because I was pasty, I decided a bit of color wouldn't hurt. I was satisfied with the results, also knowing that all the cosmetics I owned were sweat-resistant, so nothing should wear off.

After that, I popped a few antacids with a very generous glass of water, put on my glasses again, and headed out the door toward my doom with an apple in hand.

* * *

"**You're looking very nice today, Lieutenant, especially in those glasses,"** Capt. Bernadette grinned as I passed him on my way to my platoon (my apple was completely eaten by this time). His hair was dry now, and his pinkish skin had returned to a normal pigment. However, he was still in a cheery mood, and I could tell he hadn't drank the night before—he didn't have a hangover.

If he did, he was acting extremely happy about having one.

"Thanks," I sighed, my head throbbing.

"I have to admit, I was a bit worried about you. You were quite tipsy last night, and I knew you'd probably be suffering in the morning." He continued to smile. "You seem to be handling it well."

I didn't smile. "I'm glad it looks that way."

His happiness seemed to drop a little. "How bad is it?"

"Well, my head hurts, my body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, my mouth is dry, my eyes are bloodshot, and my stomach is full of rocks."

I exhaled. "Oh, yes, and my hips are sore."

He cracked a smile. "Well, you _did _say you like it rough."

My stomach dropped.

"Oh, but don't worry," he said after, probably from seeing my expression change to pain. Then, he winked and said, "Plenty of protection was used."

Even if Capt. Bernadette was trying to make me feel better, I couldn't bring myself to relief. I had gotten as "well-acquainted" with this man as one could possibly get. For reasons better left unexplained at the moment, I had just ruined my entire life. Not because I was exaggerating, but because I was strictly told to abide by every rule set in the Holy Bible . . . and I remembered distinctly that premarital sex was, well, wrong.

Suddenly, I heard a loud siren screech, said my goodbyes to the captain, and headed toward my platoon.

* * *

"**Hey, Lieutenant," **one of my soldiers greeted in a sly tone as I walked past him to the front of the group. "I heard you had quite a busy night."

"Gentlemen," I said kindly, "let's not drive into my personal life. We have a lot to cover today, just like every day." Really, all I could think was, _Great—he bragged._

"No, really, Lieut. Aurelle," another man, Murray Toyley, said. He always had a hopeful, earnest kind of look about him—as if he might get his way if he begged the right way. "We should take it easy today."

"Why is that, Toyley?"

"Well, because we're all still tired from yesterday, and you don't look to be in a good way." He suddenly looked scared. "No offense!"

"'Tired' should not be in your vocabulary as a Hellsing soldier," I retorted. "Each of you should be ready for attack at every moment, no matter how sleepy you claim to be. And just so you know, Toyley, I feel fine."

I faked a smirk. "Now, where shall we begin? Ah, yes! Toyley, I think you'll make a great example for this one. . . ."

. . . . A while later into my shift, my head was pounding vigorously from the constant explosion of bullets from the barrels of my men's rifles. My eyes were blurry with stifled tears, and the antacids were beginning to wear off. I could feel my bones beginning to solidify into hematite as I leaned against a nearby chain-link fence for support. I was woozy, lethargic, and irritable—but I couldn't show it.

My thoughts on the situation? Whoever got me drunk was going to pay . . . possibly with a sharp implement through their pancreas.

* * *

**I don't believe I've ever been more relieved to retire at the end of the day** than the day I had a hangover. I stumbled into my room and toward the medicine cabinet in my bathroom to take a few more antacids in hopes of finally getting rid of nausea. I searched the small fridge in my room for something to drink, and forced down eight ounces of cranberry juice. I even made myself eat toast.

_It's a good thing I had to research this topic in high school,_ I thought, _or I wouldn't know how to help myself feel better right now._

Afterward, I found the skimpiest clothes I owned and put them on. I was sweating profusely, and I knew that even an ice pack wouldn't help me if I was wearing fleece pants. So, I opted for a loose, spaghetti-string tank top and boy shorts, which I couldn't remember buying but was glad I owned. I clipped my hair up after dunking my head into a sink full of ice-cold water (I was desperate). Then, I lay spread-eagle on my bed, hoping to God that it would be over soon.

I was just about to drift into an unpleasantly light sleep when I heard Vanessa laugh as she appeared in my room. I could tell she'd been out dancing by her colorful clothing, with purple and green beads hanging from her neck. Her hair was pinned up with bright pink bobby pins, and she was wearing her gold nose stud. I will never know if they sell cosmetics to ghosts, but somehow, Vanessa was also adorned in neon orange eyeshadow.

"Hey, Lieutenant!" she chimed, making me groan and throw a pillow at her figure—which passed right through her.

"What's wrong?" she asked as she floated toward me. I didn't answer, so she must have thought that meant I was fine, seeing as she continued with, "Hey, hey, want to hear a joke?"

Again, I didn't respond, but she told me anyway. "What do you do when a blonde throws a pin at you?"

I moaned, "I don't know, what do you do?"

"Run—she has a hand grenade in her mouth!"

Vanessa proceeded to chuckle noisily, while I was left unamused and grouchy. In fact, I cynically said, "Very funny. You do realize you're a blonde, right?"

"I know, but I'm not that stupid. Besides, even if I had a hand grenade in my mouth, it wouldn't hurt me—I'm already dead, after all. Also, I don't think they make hand grenades for ghosts. I could ask Bobby, he's the one that told me the joke. You know, he was a first-class private in the military for the United States. I thought it was cool that we're both American. I could bring him here later, but he has a meeting with his psychiatrist. Poor guy—he's dead, and yet shell shock is still getting to him. I wonder if—"

"VANESSA!" I screamed before gripping my head in regret. I whispered, "I don't care about Bobby. I just want to be left alone."

"Geez, someone's a little touchy."

She was quiet, but I could see a thought bursting through her mind by her facial expression. Finally, she gasped, "You have a hangover!"

"I know. I've had one all day."

"Oops. . . ."

That caught my attention. "What do you mean, 'oops'?"

"Well, I didn't think those wine coolers would have that much effect on you; I was just trying to cheer you up."

"What wine coolers?"

"You know that seltzer water you had last night?"

"Yes."

"I sort of switched it with two wine cooler bottles."

I would have screamed if I didn't have an unbearable headache. I imagined myself drinking the seltzer water—20 ounces of seltzer water—and actually taking in alcohol into my bloodstream. I had no idea what else might have been slipped into the spiked beverages before I drank them, either, so getting intoxicated was possible.

Well, at least now I knew how I ended up in Capt. Bernadette's bed. The downside was I still had the hangover. Oh, and I couldn't impale Vanessa's invisible, weightless pancreas. Instead, all I did was begin crying, which forced Vanessa out of my room and allowed me to wallow in my self-pity alone.

* * *

**A while later, I was contemplating suffocating myself with a pillow** when I heard a knock at the door. I staggered across the room in a most wretched mood to see Walter.

His grey hair was pulled back in a neatly-worn ponytail, and his refined vest and suit pants made him look distinguished as ever. However, through his monocle I could see a tad of distress in his eyes, which made me forget my own problems momentarily and question him.

However, he wouldn't answer me right away. His eyes looked over my clothes and lingered at my eyes as he wondered, "Have you been crying, Lieut. Aurelle?"

"Yes. I have a splitting headache." It wasn't completely a lie. "Now, what's wrong?"

"Sir Integra wants you to accompany your platoon, along with a few other units, to a cathedral near the border of Scotland," he explained.

"Is Iscariot acting up again?"

"No . . . well, it isn't known for sure." He hesitated. "Somehow, Alucard has disappeared, and Sir Integra is worried. She wants him found and back here immediately."

I didn't move a muscle, mostly due to shock.

Still, Walter seemed to be lost in his own thoughts and didn't notice my lack of response.

"Your platoon's waiting for you," he sighed. "Change into something more suitable quickly, then please, report to the grounds."

Then, he was off, leaving me lonesome, sweaty, and with a hangover while the weight of my position pressed down upon my shoulders.


	5. Sacrifices and Head Rushes

_A/N: Bonjour, lovely readers! I am delighted to announce that I am on summer vacation from high school now, so I am planning to devote a great chunk of my time to writing and updating on this website while I have the privilege to do so. After all, I fear once September swings around for me, I am going to fall into that horrible slump again where there is no activity on my account for months---I have picked the harder classes, you see, and with harder classes not only comes responsibility, but daily homework expectations (oh, how I loathe the school system)._

_However, I will try to stay active as a writer for the time being. I would also like to thank everyone that has reviewed this story's chapters so far---I can't tell you how excited I feel when I see a review alert pop up in my mailbox._

_All right, well, this chapter is quite long, but I've split it into manageable segments, I think. Thank you for stopping by._

* * *

**I decided that the most appropriate outfit would be my uniform,** but I realized all of my other uniforms were dirty, as I'd planned to wash them later that night, and the only one that was semi-clean was the one I wore on the grounds that day. Having to select an alternate, I found a black turtleneck, sleek black pants, and a grey vest that had Hellsing's insignia. I paired that with my black boots, put my hair into a bun, and rushed into the bathroom to apply minimal makeup (luckily for me, the hangover had subsided by now). Then, I slipped on those white gloves and glasses and was out the door.

I wasn't told exactly where we were going. The only thing I knew for sure was that somehow, Sir Integra tracked down a large cathedral, although it looked more like a prison . . . in fact, it looked just like a penitentiary of the United States (I had free time and decided to look up creepy things on the Internet).

It resembled a fortress, only it had tiny, square, barred windows, and its hallways resembled those of psychiatric wards. The doors to cells were tall, with small windows just big enough to look through. Accessible floors were simply cement or had tiles missing and chipping away. More important, it was dark—very dark—and I could only see by flashlight light. The lighting was very dull in the places that had ceiling lights, and the bulbs often flickered.

Quite frankly, I found everything to be eerie. I didn't even want to imagine having to sit through a sermon in that chilling building. . . .

All the plans for searching this "cathedral" were made by the time we reached our destination, so it was decided that my men and I would take the bottommost floors, working our way down as we went. I would be able to contact the other units via a device that resembled both a cell phone and a walkie-talkie. I had Capt. Bernadette put on "speed dial," considering the fact that he's my direct superior officer.

I was also armed with a flashlight in hand, extra ammo around my waist, a dagger fastened to my calf, and my trusty .45 Colt holstered to my thigh, which Walter had customized (with both mercury-filled bullets and Hellsing's name inscribed on the barrel, along with other things essential to Hellsing life). I was even told to carry around this somewhat tiresome messenger bag, which had extra packets of medical blood, just in case Monsieur Alucard was a bit thirsty when we found him. Yes, I suppose you could say I was ready for this.

* * *

**I could hear Toyley complaining of the dank hallways** and mold-smelling air as my platoon traveled farther down the prison, checking every room for occupancy. Luckily, each door was unlocked, so the procedure was fairly easy (other than me having to scream at Toyley to quite griping like a five-year-old girl). I had to admit that my own hopes were getting more and more crushed as we ventured deeper into the penitentiary and found nothing, and the noxious aromas were anything but comforting. However, I tried to keep the spirit up, knowing that if my men failed, I failed as their leader—and I wouldn't have that.

"Lieutenant," someone eventually told me, "I don't think he's down here."

"We won't know until we reach the last room," I simply replied.

"How far away is said room?" Toyley's voice rang out from the back of the group.

"Well if I knew that, Toyley, don't you think we'd be done by now?" I then told everyone to hush up. "Quiet is usually the best approach."

We never did reach the last room. Instead, we reached the last hallway. The normal room-checking procedure was underway when I found something at the far corner of one cell and told my men to stand watch. I walked toward the figure to uncover Monsieur Alucard, lit up by the dull illumination of a flittering ceiling light.

He was hunched over with his face hidden from view by greying hair. His red coat was missing, so when I approached him, his legs jutted out from under black pants that rose to meet only a vest and white undershirt. He actually might have looked quite peaceful if his arms weren't suspended by cuffed wrists that hooked into the wall above—and if he wasn't in some dark, moist cell in an abandoned prison.

"Monsieur Alucard?" I practically whispered, somehow discomfited by the current condition of this vampire.

When he didn't answer, I had no choice but to walk closer and ask again. When he remained silent a second time, I bit back on my opposition to the undead and touched his shoulder. It was then when his arms rattled, and I heard him grunt as he tried to break free of his confines. I backed up as he weakly kicked his legs and shook his own body, only to quit in defeat moments later.

I felt almost sorry for him. It was saddening to see something considered having so much power stripped of all power whatsoever.

I think my voice showed such concern. "Do you know who did this to you, Monsieur?"

He didn't answer me.

I asked another question. "Do you know how you got here?"

Still, he was voiceless.

I couldn't help it—I became frustrated. My voice rose in intensity with my next words, and my tone was more bitter. "Would you like something before I break off those handcuffs, or would you like to sit there for all of eternity?"

His voice was a low, barely audible grumble, and he kept his face hidden. "Blood."

"All right." I dug into my messenger bag to find nothing but a hole in the bottom of the messenger bag. "Damn it."

I quickly walked to the threshold to ask my men if they had any packets on them. Apparently, they were only handed out to commissioned officers—which, unfortunately, cut out my platoon sergeant, Michael Bentley. I cursed a second time, and handed my phone to Bentley so he could notify everyone that the vampire was found. Then, I turned back to Monsieur Alucard.

"Sorry, Monsieur. I've no blood to offer," I sighed. "It must have fallen out on my way here. When we get back to headquarters, there will be some waiting for you."

"No. I need blood now," was all he said.

"I'm sorry," I repeated, "but you'll have to wait. I don't have any blood to give you."

"Yes you do. I can hear it pulsing through your veins."

I grimaced. "I'm not a portable blood bank, Monsieur."

His voice was on the brink of sounding pathetic. "Please."

I looked back to see my men staring at me intently through the doorway. When I pivoted around to face Monsieur Alucard, I exhaled in exasperation and grabbed the dagger I had strapped to my lower leg. I realized that I couldn't afford to delay our arrival back in England just because I didn't like vampires. Still, this was ridiculous.

"Does it matter where I cut?" I asked begrudgingly.

"No, as long as there's a lot," he said faintly.

I stared at the knife in my hand, debating whether I should just have one of my men sacrifice a bit of blood for this vampire. I knew that was selfish and Monsieur Alucard had asked me in the first place, so I did decide against that. Nonetheless, I wasn't excited about slicing myself just so a vampire could put its mouth on me and feed off of my blood supply. Especially this vampire.

_I might as well get on with it_, I thought reluctantly. Then, I rolled up one of my sleeves and placed the sharp edge against my skin. I held it there for a second, preparing myself for the pain, and quickly ran the blade across my skin, cleaving my flesh. I dropped the dagger suddenly and inhaled quickly, biting my lip and cursing in my mind.

I saw Monsieur Alucard beginning to wriggle in his handcuffs, his entire body writhing with hunger. He made disturbing groaning sounds and drew in breath for no fathomable reason other than pain. Despite how frightening this display may have been, I advanced on him and placed my arm's underside near his mouth. The blood dripped in thin and thick lines down my forearm, forming intricate patterns that gushed out as my cut throbbed.

No longer than a second later did I feel Monsieur Alucard's cold, wet tongue trace my wound and follow the small rivers that oozed out. I attempted to keep my stomach above my knees by looking away, but even as I tried to think of something else, all I could feel was the sickening gelidity of a vampire's tongue on my body. My arm twitched when he dipped his tongue into the cut, but for some reason, it didn't hurt. Come to think of it, my wound was seemingly numbed the entire time Monsieur Alucard fed on me.

The fact that his saliva seemed to act as novocaine must have been the reason why I noticed immediately when Monsieur Alucard bit down. Fortunately, I was able to pull away before he forced his teeth deep into a muscle. When I stumbled backward and looked at the cut, the blood gone to expose the pink layer of tissue below my epidermis, my skin was shiny and somewhat sticky from where Monsieur Alucard's tongue had been.

I stifled the urge to gag by rolling my sleeve back down and stepping forth to break off Monsieur Alucard's shackles. I held my hands over the metal for a minute before it glowed with a yellow hue and broke off. When his wrists were freed, Monsieur Alucard took no time in lifting from the ground and grabbing my hand.

I saw his face then, which looked the same as it had for as long as I could remember. His hair had returned to its penetrating black color, and his eyes were a dark, invading crimson.

He smiled, exposing his fangs. "I am eternally grateful, Lieut. Aurelle," he whispered. Then, he kissed my hand and walked toward a wall. "I will meet you outside after I finish off a few Catholic pigs. Good evening."

I watched him dematerialize through the wall before I picked up my dagger. I wiped it on my shirt and returned back to my platoon.

"Lieut. Aurelle! Capt. Bernadette's having trouble on the eighth floor," my platoon sergeant informed me as soon as I stepped out into the hallway. "He just called for backup."

"All right then guys," I nodded. "We're headed to the eighth floor."

* * *

**It didn't take us nearly as long to reach the eighth floor** from the bottom floor as I thought it would—perhaps because I kept yelling at my men to hurry up (some of them lagged a bit behind me . . . Toyley, to name one). I suppose Monsieur Alucard's saliva was beginning to evaporate, seeing as my arm was beginning to throb and bleed through my sleeve. In an attempt to prolong the fading numbness, I kept my mind focused on helping the captain. He was far more skillful than I, and I knew that if he was in trouble, the problem was serious.

As soon as I approached Capt. Bernadette near the middle of the hall, I knew exactly what our problem was, no questions asked. I saw stray papers whirling in the air, damp clumps of them collecting on the floor while mingling with soldiers' blood. One flew by me and I was able to read a familiar verse from the Bible. . . .

Iscariot was here.

I asked Bentley for the walkie-talkie device immediately and gave a few strict orders: help back up the Wild Geese, follow the orders of Capt. Bernadette exactly as you would my own, and only come reach me if it is absolutely necessary. I also informed Bentley that he was to maintain my platoon while I handled the situation alone, and that any mess-ups would find their way to Sir Integra.

Still, before I could actually go through with my plans, Capt. Bernadette stopped me.

He grabbed my left upper arm and held it firmly, making sure I wouldn't run off (which, I will admit, I am prone to do). Then, over the gun shots, I heard him ask, "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"I'm taking care of things," I answered, impatiently waiting for him to release his grip.

He cursed at me and yelled, "You need to man your platoon, Lieutenant! You can't run off and leave it to Bentley."

"Watch me."

He was too strong—and apparently he knew, for he smiled smugly as he said, "You're not going anywhere, Lieutenant."

I waited a second. . . .

"Sorry, Captain."

I acted guilty for a moment—as a distraction—before I hastily twisted myself to face the captain and kicked him directly above the knee with my boot (football was actually a hobby of mine back in my teenage years too, so I had an advantage). He curled back in pain, mumbled something colorful in French, and let me free. I was already on my way when I heard him scream my name angrily.

_Forgive me my dirty tricks, Lord, for I know not what I do,_ I prayed a bit quickly as I advanced on my target—the center of the paper tornado.

* * *

**Just the sight of him made me shiver.**

This man, decked out in a plain, white button-up shirt and tan pants, topped off with a flowing, almost ankle-length grey coat, intimidated me. His boots weren't spectacular, and he wore white gloves similar to Monsieur Alucard (only they had words scribbled on them instead of a fancy pentagram). He even wore glasses like me, but mine were thicker-framed by a long shot. Perhaps it was that inhumanly large cross that dangled from his neck, or those eerie scars that lined his jaw that frightened me.

Could it be the five o' clock shadow?

Suddenly, it hit me like a shower of large caliber bullets: I was scared because I recognized him. Not from pictures, as I was shown none. Not even from descriptions; it's different when you see someone with your own eyes. I just knew him from somewhere.

I could see a maniacal twinkle in his emerald eyes. "Hello, Hellsing brat."

His Scottish accent gave it away.

"Father Anderson," I whispered in disbelief.

"You say it with familiarity," he looked skeptical. He studied me over just then, but he seemed to come up fruitless.

"Non. I must just be imagining things," I answered nonchalantly, trying to shake the shock from my head.

"No, no, I think I see it now." His grin stretched on for miles. "It was many years ago . . . an orphanage burnt down in Nice, and you were sent to Scotland, for they had no room left in France and you were an American."

I swallowed hard as he continued. "You were a little one, always with that scared look on your face. You couldn't have been older than seven. I was told your father died in war, and your mother killed herself a few days after she had you. Left you for dead in an alleyway, covered in rubbish.

"You were a very sweet girl. Such a good Catholic . . . aye, I remember you."

I felt like crawling underneath a pile of those bloody scriptures. This was the Father Anderson of my childhood years, back when I was a Catholic—back when I wore my rosary like it was made of gold, prayed to Mary just as I would the Lord, sang along somewhat mechanically with the hymns, sat through sermons patiently and knowing that if I fell asleep, a sister would notice. Father Anderson was a nice man, I remembered, but he always seemed to remind me to stay away from the Protestants. . . .

Now, I knew why.

"I can tell from your eyes that my memory serves me right." He broke me from my thoughts. "It's good to see you again then, Ms. Soleil Etoile."

I suddenly got a massive head rush as the memories flooded back into my mind. I could remember sitting next to Father Anderson, his form shrouded behind a veil while I spilled my sins out in shame, feeling unworthy to be talking to such a holy person. I would often visit him after mass, just to ask him of any insecurities I may have had about my actions as a Catholic, or to clear up anything I didn't quite understand in the sermon. He was always so kind . . . I never would have thought. . . .

The room began to spin as the ceiling traded places with the floor. I saw the cell doors around me pulse with a beating heart, inflating and compressing as my brain throbbed within the confines of my skull. The globs of scripture cluttering at my feet began to flutter around my body, leaking blood onto my uniform and staining my skin. The only thing that stayed the same was the sound of Father Anderson's voice.

"Whatever made you turn your back on Catholicism? It's really quite a shame; I thought I'd taught you well," I could hear him saying. "Perhaps it wouldn't be so horrible if you'd stayed away from Hellsing, eh? I could have had a bit of mercy, and wouldn't have to kill you. . . ."

The world around me began hemorrhaging black ink, engulfing me in its blinding darkness. I felt my eyes growing heavy, like I'd been dosed with an unfathomable amount of sedatives. Still, I could hear Father Anderson's voice fading in and out, not grasping the meaning of his words but knowing the tone was anything but friendly. I wondered vaguely if this is what it felt like to overdose on barbiturates—extremely relaxing while driving the victim senseless with the feeling of helplessness. . . .

* * *

**I woke up in my bed, back at headquarters with no idea how I got there.** The sun was gone, and the moon was flaunting her iridescent self against the velvet sky above me. Stars were flecked across the heavens here and there, occasionally seen behind the thick clouds that seemed to constantly overcast London. My window was open slightly, denoting that someone else had been in my room at some point; I never opened my window at night, for it became far too drafty.

The clothes I had worn earlier were replaced by a sheer silk nightgown through which you could tell I wasn't wearing a bra. That was quite strange, I thought, for that also meant someone took it off for me . . . Lord, how I hoped Vanessa had somehow gained telekinetic powers.

However, my brassiere's absence was not nearly the most unsettling thing I noticed. When I tried leaving my bed to fetch a glass of water, sharp, shooting pains blared outward from my waist, near my left hip. On instinct, I clasped my hand to the area, feeling something smooth beneath my nightgown that didn't quite have the texture of flesh. I flipped up the sheets as carefully I could without hurting myself, then quickly hopped up from the bed so the pain would be minimal. Afterward, I slowly pulled the skirt of my nightgown toward me to see my hip plastered in gauze.

"Wonderful," I thought gloomily. "Just what I've always wanted—my very own wound to leave my very own battle scar."

I saw my underwear was missing, so I forced myself back into bed before someone had the chance to be mentally scarred.

Shortly after, Vanessa whirled in through my open window with her recent boyfriend, Dempsey (I do believe I've mentioned him before). Dempsey was quite the character, with jet-black hair that was layered and styled fashionably—his bangs cut diagonally across his forehead. He was unnaturally pale and wore thicker eyeliner than I normally do, but he had nice lips and his chiseled features looked somewhat like they belonged to a Greek statue. Currently, he was adorned in a black outfit, complete with leg-hugging jeans, army boots, muscle tank top, and studded leather jacket. His gloves, however, were white like mine.

"Vanessa, Dempsey," I nodded in acknowledgment. My eyes lingered on Dempsey, though. "You two look different—well, at least you do, Dempsey. I'm used to Vanessa's self-expressive clothing."

That was definitely true. While Vanessa rarely wore the same thing twice, her outfits were always unique and sometimes screamed for attention. She might dress in bold and florescent colors one day, only to wear dark, brooding shades the next. This time, it was a mix: Vanessa donned bright blue fishnet stockings, a purple, black, and white plaid skirt, and a tight white shirt with long black sleeves accented with blue skulls. Around her neck hung mock barbed wire, and her feet were hidden beneath Mary Jane's with chunky heels.

"I gave Demps a bit of a makeover," Vanessa explained, her dark brown eyes twinkling mischievously behind ivory eyeshadow and long, false eyelashes.

"Well, you do look . . . made-over," I told Dempsey reluctantly, a bit tongue-tied. The Dempsey I'd met before, who had roamed the earth as a ghost since the Victorian era, was now decked out in dark, brooding, practically emo clothing. What was I supposed to say to that?

"These pants are cutting off my circulation," I heard Dempsey's raspy voice whisper to Vanessa.

"You're dead, love—your blood stopped flowing a long time ago," she answered with a smile.

"They're still uncomfortable," he mumbled to himself with a frown.

"How badly are you hurt, Lynne?" Vanessa asked, ignoring Dempsey completely. Before I could ask how she knew, she added, "I saw your helper, Bentley, carrying you in through the back doors."

"To tell you the truth, I don't know for sure," I sighed. "I woke up not even ten minutes before you got here."

"Really? Wow, then you've been out long. Bentley was with you about three days ago. I went to the hospital wing to check up on you while you stayed there, but I couldn't exactly ask anyone about you—and you were out cold."

Vanessa grimaced. "That stupid vampire wouldn't tell me anything, either."

Suddenly, I heard a distinctively deep, intruding voice. "Someone who goes around wearing atrocious clothing shouldn't insult others' intelligence."

Vanessa nearly jumped out of her skin, but I recognized the voice almost immediately. "Bonsoir, Monsieur Alucard," I exhaled sleepily.

"Good evening, Lieut. Aurelle," he smiled, "or should I say Soleil Etoile?"

I rested my face in my hands, upset and tired. "Not now, please. Can you just act like no one ever called me that?"

"That would have never been an issue, but I would also have to pretend you never offered anything to me—and the genuine disgust on your face was priceless." I felt him sit on the edge of my bed as it sank down a bit from the weight.

"Excuse me," Vanessa cut in and stepped closer to Monsieur Alucard, "but how do you know her real name, and what type of offering are you talking about?"

"Vanessa, I'll tell you later," I yawned and uncovered my face. "You and Dempsey should leave now, though, and continue on your date. Change into some better pants, too; Dempsey looks like he's about to start chafing."

Dempsey smiled with relief. "Thank you, Ms. Lynette."

With a bitter glower and huff, Vanessa vacated my room with Dempsey, leaving me alone with the curious Monsieur Alucard and no choice but to begin explaining.


	6. Disarmed and Exposed

_**A/N:** Hello, everyone. This has to be one of my fastest updates yet, and that's very shocking considering this is the longest chapter I've ever written in my entire life. However, it's length is due to the flashbacks that Lieut. Aurelle has very often while she talks with Alucard, and I didn't go into unbearable detail. Mostly, this chapter is long because it covers a lot._

_I've always wondered if anyone bothers to read these things . . . well, that doesn't really matter. Anyway, thanks for reading, and enjoy._

* * *

**The moonlight shone through my open window madly, **illuminating Monsieur Alucard's face against the creeping darkness of my room. He sat at the far end of my bed, relaxed as he leaned against the footboard. He was wearing his normal outfit, minus that huge red trench coat, elongated hat, and wire-rimmed glasses. His eyes shined their uncannily brilliant crimson, which could have easily hypnotized any normal human, I was sure.

Luckily for me, I wasn't normal. I sat at the other end of my bed, resting my back on pillows and the headboard. I clasped my hands and held them in my lap, trying to appear as comfortable as possible in his presence. In truth, I was quite unsettled by his visit; my recent mission had caused me to do something I tried with all my might to avoid. I had been especially kind to a vampire—in fact, I had given up some of my own blood. I had cut myself for his benefit.

No, I definitely wasn't thrilled to have Monsieur Alucard in my bedroom.

"It's a beautiful evening, wouldn't you agree?" he said to me then, I suppose in an effort to create conversation.

"Lovely," I told him. It really was a beautiful night—after all, it wasn't often the clouds parted over London so that I may look up at the same sky I'd gazed at in my younger years.

My eyes wandered out my window while he continued to speak to me. "It's a pity it won't stay this way for long; I can tell it will begin to storm later tonight."

"Well, nothing lasts forever," I responded, then looked at him. "Even if that's the way some things seem."

He smiled, obviously understanding my hint. "Change was created for a reason, Lieutenant: to save us from the insanity eternity brings. It's true, even vampires do not live forever."

I thought about that for a moment. "Eternity seems like a very lonely place."

"It is."

I watched his grin fade away to an emotionless line, but something in his eyes caught my attention. Not even a second later, however, it vanished, and I was left with the usual dark but unreadable pools of red.

"So," he began again, "I suppose it is time for the great unveiling of Lieutenant Lynette Margaux Aurelle, enigma at large."

"I suppose," I answered faintly. For some reason, I was amazingly exhausted, though I hadn't even been awake for an hour.

He must have sensed my fatigue. "What ails you, Lieutenant?"

That was a good question . . . what _was_ ailing me? It was probably my wound, whether its origin was a mystery or not was irrelevant. Nonetheless, I thought of a better excuse.

"Monsieur Alucard, people have a horrible habit of breaking into my room without the proper rapping of the door or asking for permission—Vanessa, mainly. That doesn't usually bother me greatly, but what I intend to tell you . . . well, it is private, and I only want you to hear for now."

I wrung my hands to calm myself before my suggestion. "I was wondering if we could go somewhere else for our discussion."

He seemed indifferent. "Where would you like to go?"

_Perhaps to America, where I could finally see my friends again and get away from this whole bloody mess_, I thought. I said, "Preferably, some place people don't visit often. However, Monsieur, I don't know this mansion nearly as well as you do; I had hoped you'd pick."

"In that case, I know just the place." His grin was light as he lifted from my bed and stood at my bedside, waiting.

I sighed and pulled the covers from my legs, trying hard to move gracefully to lessen the pain. I slowly turned my body until my legs dangled at the edge of my bed, and then I stepped down—too fast, it seemed. I nearly collapsed and probably would have if Monsieur Alucard hadn't caught my arms and gently put me back on my legs.

I was just about to thank him when he handed me a cane that had leaned on the other side of my night stand—on the side I couldn't see. I looked at it carefully, with its arched top, smooth, polished wood, and cushioned handle. I began to wonder why a common lieutenant was given such a nice cane instead of some throwaway tree branch.

I quickly dismissed the thought and decided to say in all sincerity (though I was a bit flustered), "Thank you, Monsieur."

He grinned, which I took to be his form of "you're welcome." Then, he escorted me to my bedroom door. He walked ahead of me once we were out in the hallway, and I began to resent my cane and injury. I was sure I couldn't match Monsieur Alucard's footing and pace, as he was a vampire—and an older one at that—so he would always be quicker than I. However, in perfect health I could've at least only been about a meter behind him, not the unbearable distance I was limping then.

"I feel like a cripple," I muttered bitterly while I tried to find a rhythm to my hobbling.

"You don't look so terrible," he commented, showing off his excellent hearing skills. "Your health and youth will help you heal quickly."

I sighed, dissatisfied, but I knew there was nothing I could do. So, I simply tapped my cane on the ground and continued to press forward while Alucard led the way, down many floors and across many hallways. I never thought to ask where we were going.

* * *

**It wasn't until we reached a set of stairs carved out of stone,** seemingly out of the floor, that I began to question our destination in my mind. I tried to look down the corridor attached to the stairs, but all I could see was darkness, minus a few candles hanging from old-fashioned holders on the walls. Monsieur Alucard pressed on into the blackness without a care, which didn't make me feel any better. I didn't quite like the eerie hollow feeling of the passageway, and just because Monsieur Alucard wasn't frightened didn't mean a thing—he was one of the most feared vampires of all time. Honestly, what did he have to frighten him? 

Still, I'd much rather lag behind Monsieur Alucard as I had been than be forced to make a voyage into the corridor by myself, so I tried catching up as best as I could manage.

The candles hardly did a good job of lighting my way, so I tripped and almost broke my nose many times. My cane had a habit of getting stuck in little cracks in the floor, and I would continue walking only to nearly topple over myself in the process. I grew very envious of the way my guide seemed to glide carelessly along in the shadows, never once making an ungraceful move. However, knowing jealousy was one of the deadliest sins, I bit back on my vile green feeling and proceeded to make my way down the corridor.

For a corridor, it didn't have many rooms. In fact, the only door I saw was one at the very end. It was broad and awesome, and seemed to be a nearly perfect square constructed of concrete. What I thought was a pentagram painted in something red (I didn't want to think about what it could be) stretched across the door, but it was too dark for me to truly tell. Monsieur Alucard stood wordlessly in front of me and began to open the door with a soft scraping sound. He stepped in with familiarity, though it wasn't until I had stumbled into the room myself that I realized why.

The room was pleasantly well lit compared to the passageway outside, and it had a lot of space that suggested not much time was spent in it (just like my room, in fact). A red trench coat, hat, and glasses sat on top of a round wooden table to the left of the room. At the right were many bookcases filled with thick, impressive books, most of which looked rather old.

Near the back stood a roomy chair that looked like some sort of throne. Beside the throne was a large, broad black coffin. The walls were bare except for a beautiful painting of some far-off place, with large mountains in the background and quaint homes and mansions in the foreground. The sky was a striking dark blue, and only a few clouds were to be seen beside a pearly moon. It was hard to take my eyes off of it.

My heart caught in my throat as Monsieur Alucard said, "Welcome to my room."

* * *

**"I'm not sure where you'd like me to start, Monsieur,"** I sighed as I sat in one of the chairs from the small round table. Before me, he lounged in his throne and waited for me to begin my explanation. 

"The beginning always seems to work," he replied and ran a gloved hand through his thick and unkempt hair.

"Very well," I muttered, trying to think back to the start of it all—which, disappointingly, was the start of my life. An elaboration of _that _proportion would take forever to tell him, and I certainly didn't know how to compress my own life story.

"Monsieur, the beginning . . . that is the beginning of my life," I edged out. "I do not think you have time for me to explain _everything_."

"You need only tell me things that are of great significance, Lieut. Aurelle," he assured me. "And I have all the time in the world."

_Great significance_, I repeated in my mind. _Well, that narrows down a few things . . . but still leaves a few hours' worth of my voice._

"Are you truly sure you want to hear about _me_, Monsieur Alucard?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes. I would like to know as much as I can—provided you don't bore me into an earlier second death."

"I'll try, but I can't promise you anything."

I took a deep breath and tried to remember. . . .

* * *

**"**_**My dear, I'm not sure you'd want to know why you came here,"** Sister Aurélie whispered to me as she stood supervising my daily prayer session, which I had completed a few minutes ago._

"_Why would that be, sister?" I asked innocently. _

_I had turned eight years old about a month prior, and I'd recently been curious as to my roots. Many of the other orphans knew something of their parents, as they'd been sent to live with me because their parents died when they were five in some tragic trolley accident or house fire. Some even remembered their mothers or fathers, as they'd only moved into the orphanage when they were ten or eleven and had many memories of their family._

_I, on the other hand, couldn't remember anything. I didn't know my mother or father's names, what their faces looked like, the sound of their voices telling me it'll be okay when a thunderstorm strikes and I hide beneath my covers. I didn't know why they named me Soleil Etoile, which I knew meant "Sun Star" by the time I was five. It sounded like a silly combination to me, but then again, I loved my name._

_It was the only thing I had to remember my parents by._

"_Sister, I really would like to know," I tried pleading with her without sounding like I was begging. Whining got on any nun's nerves._

_She looked up at me with sadness in her eyes. "Miss Soleil, it isn't a nice story. You wouldn't like to hear it."_

"_Yes, I would, and I do. Sister Aurélie, I'm the only one here who doesn't have a past."_

"_You have a past, Miss Soleil. It just isn't pleasant." She sat down on the pew next to me. "But if you really want to know, I suppose I can tell you."_

_She took a deep breath and explained. "You were born in the United States, but your mother and father were both French. When you were very little—not even a month old—your dad was sent off to war, and your mother moved back here. She later got the news that he wouldn't be able to come home."_

_Sister Aurélie stared at me for a moment, probably trying to see if I'd digested everything so far. Then, she continued. "Your mother didn't feel like she could take care of a baby. She was very young—not that her age is an excuse. One night, she left you in the alley right next to this orphanage alone, with a note pinned to your blanket—that's how we know all of this about you here."_

_I sat there for a minute, not quite understanding. "My mom left me here? She . . . she ran off without me? She didn't die like all the other kids' parents?"_

_I was indignant. It wasn't right that my mother left me bereft of a true family just because she didn't . . . love me. Moms were supposed to keep their kids, right? They weren't supposed to abandon them in the middle of the night because they felt pressured. I didn't want my mom dead, but somehow, I felt like it would make sense if she was. If she died, she wouldn't have been able to keep me. She would have gone to Heaven without a second chance._

_It wasn't fair. Everyone else was here because their parents died. I was here because no one loved me. I found myself crying._

"_My dear," Sister Aurélie held me against her side and patted my arm. "Not everyone is here for the same reason, and not everyone's here because God took their mom and dad away. These things happen to some of us because the Lord wants to test us."_

_How could He do that to me? I wondered, not wanting to tell the sister in fear that she'd reprimand me. I'd heard about Him testing people . . . but this "testing" seemed more like an excuse for being mean. What did He want to prove? If you took someone's family away, what did He expect? That they'd just walk away and say, "Oh, it'll be all right. I've got the Lord on my side."_

* * *

**I paused, remembering that day with Sister Aurélie perfectly.** She held me close for a long time, until my tears faded and I was sent to help clean the kitchen. I was at such a young age, and yet I knew it was wrong for my mother to forsake me—I had become angry, nonetheless. From that day on, I had wondered what life would have been like if I hadn't grown up in an orphanage, if I'd had a family like most of the people I met later in life. I might have learned valuable life lessons, I might have been a nicer person, I might not be in the mess I was in right now. 

I wouldn't have been shocked later on when I heard that my mother hadn't only left me, but shot herself in the same alleyway, right next to my body. I wouldn't have nearly vomited after picturing her brain matter and skull fragments scattered across my blanket, in my hair, and on my skin.

"Lieutenant?" I suddenly heard Monsieur Alucard's voice in my mind. I refocused my eyes on him and saw that he was actually speaking with his mouth.

"Sorry, Monsieur. I became a bit absorbed." I rubbed my arm in an effort to calm myself. "I can begin now."

"That's quite all right," he smiled. "I've found that when you become completely enthralled by something, whatever mental barriers you use normally are torn away."

"In other words, you saw it all through me," I murmured bitterly. "You just can't help eavesdropping, not even on people's minds."

He smirked. "When you live for a very long time, some habits are simply impossible to break."

"Well, I suppose that's well enough," I sighed. "However, I can explain the next part verbally."

I began telling of my life at the Bossuet mansion, working as a maid at the age of fourteen for the rich and power Monsieur Bossuet, with his gorgeous wife and perfect house. I had worked for Monsieur Bossuet for about two years faithfully, always following every order given and scrubbing every dish twice, double-checking my folding skills with every suit I handled. In return for my hard work, Monsieur Bossuet paid me generously.

I had befriended Monsieur Bossuet's seamstress, Marguerite. She let me call her my grandmother as long as I helped her to stitch up various suits of Monsieur Bossuet and dresses of his wife. I'd even made friends with one of my fellow maids, Brigitte, who was three years my senior but very accepting of my fourteen-year-old self. She once told me I was very mature for my age, which I suppose makes perfect sense now. You grow up quickly when you have no parents to baby you.

Sheepishly, I even explained that Monsieur Bossuet took advantage of me one night after he admittedly had my dinner drugged. I also told Monsieur Alucard about the spirits I've been seeing ever since I was raped.

"They're painted black and have jagged edges with great white fangs and deep red eyes, usually six or seven but sometimes hundreds," I said. "I know it sounds crazy, but I really do see them. There are thousands walking the streets of London and Nice—everywhere–-every day, right alongside the living, undead, and apparitions."

"Are you sure they aren't vampires playing tricks with your mind, Lieutenant?" he asked me, though he didn't sound like he was in total disbelief—just curious.

"Yes, I'm sure. I've been living with vampires since I met Monsieur Bossuet . . . I did explain to you that he tried to feed off me." I tried to hide the disgust in my voice.

"Among other things, yes."

"Well, these things are completely different from anything else out there, aside from their obsession with ruining humans' lives and going unseen by the vast majority of creatures."

My heart caught in my throat. "The only other person I've ever met that could see them was Vanessa."

"Yet she's a ghost," he responded quietly, not quite understanding.

"Yes, Monsieur, but she wasn't when I met her." The memories were coming back now. . . .

* * *

_**I walked from the alleyway where I'd met the vampire doctor,** feeling subdued and rather depressed after what I'd just witnessed. A wonderful man, a person who had slaved his life over helping people and saving lives, was compromised because some stupid vampire was unable to control its temper. I wondered if that would ever be my fate . . . if I would ever fall victim to one of those beasts and have to deal with their curse myself._

_I hoped to my dear God that would never be an issue._

_The street was bustling once I reached it, just as it had been before I sought refuge in the alley. It was a bit unsettling to see so many people unaware of . . . vampires. They could fall prey to the vicious creatures at any moment. Also, there were so many people who had no idea what I'd just seen inside Monsieur Bossuet's mansion. I'd witnessed the ruthless murder of two humans and two leeches, all at the hands of some odd black apparitions._

Humanity truly is ignorant_, I thought in a sigh. Then, I bumped into someone riding on a skateboard and flew backward, landing on my bum and scraping my hands._

"_Whoa! Sorry 'bout that," she said and helped me up to my feet. I took a moment to examine her._

_Her hair was a glossy dirty blonde, and she was unusually tan compared to the people I'd just been boarding with. Her eyes were a deep, dark brown, almost like the coffee grounds I used to make Marguerite and myself coffee every morning—hers would be loaded with sugar and cream, while I tended to prefer mine black._

_The girl's clothes were the most peculiar combination of colors and fabric. Her shirt was blue on one side and green as Italy's seas on the other, and in the middle was a wincing red smiley face with its yellow tongue out. She wore a plaid, pleated miniskirt with purple, white, and black stretching across its lined pattern. Her legs were covered by mismatched thigh-highs, one orange fishnet and the other horizontally striped in white and pink. She wore suede ankle boots on her feet._

_I couldn't help but to stare at her for a moment before realizing her clothing was probably meant as a fashion statement—or it simply showed all of France that she had no fashion sense. I wasn't going to ask which one._

"_Hey, you looked pretty spooked out." Her face fixed into confusion and she waved a hand in front of my face. "Is anyone in there?"_

"_I'm here," I replied as I shook my head to clear of my muddled thoughts._

_Suddenly, she backed away from me and nearly slipped off her board. "Oh, fuck! You're covered in blood!"_

_I looked down at my maid's uniform, once spotless and pristine, now slathered in the blood of five different people—including my own. I had a deep gash on my stomach that was still bleeding through the cloth, while the rest of the blood was relatively dried. However, my skin and hair were painted with the crimson mess, too, and I could taste the metallic flavor of my own in my mouth._

"_Oui, well. . . ." I couldn't even begin to explain._

"_Wait a minute . . . you're one of Bossuet's maids, aren't you?"_

"_How did you know?"_

"_That little insignia there." She pointed at my chest, to the crest on the left side of my apron. "It's his family coat of arms."_

"_Oh." I felt my face flush. All of those years, and I hadn't even realized there was a symbol of my loyalty stitched into my clothes for the whole world to see._

"_What the hell happened to you, fall into a vat of pigs' blood?" she asked with a sickened grimace._

"_Non, Mademoiselle, it's much worse than that," I whispered. "I witnessed a murder—four, actually."_

"_Merde!" she bellowed and was greeted with the angry stares of many adults. "Four dead people? Man, I have to get you out of those clothes before people start asking questions." She took my hand. "Come with me."_

"_I'm sorry, but I can't," I apologized and wriggled my hand out of hers._

_She gave me a befuddled look, and then it turned bitter. "Why the hell not? Do you plan on walking around Nice with blood plastered to you? You're fucking crazy."_

"_Excuse me, but do you always speak this improperly?" I retorted. "No wonder all the adults around here give you dirty looks. You have the mouth of a sailor."_

"_Naw, it's not that bad," she replied. "And besides, don't go insulting sailors. My dad got lost at sea because his stupid captain was actually a vampire and ended up feasting upon the crew. I'd be proud to have a mouth like my father; not many people messed with him."_

"_I'm very sorry. I had no idea."_

"_It's all right, rich girl," she smirked. "People like you usually don't consider everyone else's feelings before talking."_

"_I am not rich," I scowled and curled my fingers into fists. "I've worked hard every day of my life since I was born because my mother abandoned me when I was a newborn and my father died trying to defend this country. Just because I was the maid—and adoptive child—of a very wealthy man doesn't mean I inherited his money."_

"_Whoa, whoa, okay. Don't blow a gasket," she said. "I guess we all make mistakes."_

"_Oui, we do," I answered faintly after my temper subsided slightly. Then, I looked the girl in the eye and noticed she had a nose and eyebrow piercing. "Well, I suppose I can follow you. I don't exactly have a home now, anyway."_

"_Sure. Just try not to blow up at me again."_

* * *

**When I snapped out of my reminiscing,** I realized I had a smile on my face, something I hadn't felt in a very long time. Just the memories of my earlier days with Vanessa were comforting; we were complete opposites—she was outgoing and crazy, I kept to myself and tried to act sane—but we got along amazingly well. 

It didn't take very long until I called her my best friend . . . although that wasn't hard for me to admit. I didn't have any friends—all that I had was either murdered or left behind at the orphanage to be adopted. And even then, Brigitte and Marguerite were both older than I, so I was treated more like a child than a friend. Also, because I was so shy, the only friends I had at the orphanage were a few of the nuns, including Sister Aurélie. I was naturally considered to be infantile by the sisters.

I would always be grateful for meeting Vanessa that day. She brought me around town, had me meet all of her misfit friends, and taught me a few priceless skills. Because of her, I will always know how to hot-wire any car, preferably expensive ones, and am trained in the art of "five finger discounts." Vanessa committed identity theft while in Nice with me in order to pay for a room at hotels instead of living on the streets or boarding in the slummy apartments of her other friends. I will never forget the rush she seemed to get by hacking into some innocent person's bank account and withdraw enough money from an ATM to fill our pockets for weeks.

"Despite how annoying she can be, I consider Vanessa to be family," I told Monsieur Alucard, who was currently studying me intently.

"You two had a very chance meeting," he reflected, giving his eavesdropping away. "If you had moved from the alley at any other time, or if she had been more careful, you probably wouldn't know each other."

"I've thought of that," I admitted. "Without Vanessa, I wouldn't be here right now."

"You enjoy it here at Hellsing?" he sounded shocked.

"Non, not especially. I wouldn't be here because I would be dead."

"Just as Vanessa."

I was silent for a moment. "Yes, exactly like Vanessa . . . she sort of died in my place."

Monsieur Alucard looked me straight in the eye now. "How is it that she died?"

"We were walking from the Laundromat, which we visited three times every week," I began to explain. "I remember I had to wear the clothes I—we—stole from a local store the day before because my tired uniform was dirty and ripped at the hem where it'd gotten caught on a clothing rack as we ran out with the ransacked items.

"Anyway, it wasn't even a minute after we'd left with our clean clothes that a few of those damn spirits came along and tried to ambush me in the fog. One gashed me along the back and another tried holding me down. . . ." I trailed off and looked away, feeling my cheeks begin to gain color as I remembered all too clearly.

After a second or two, I met his gaze again, and there was something there that told me my point was understood. "Thankfully, nothing actually happened to me," I continued, only to feel my heart sink. "However, I can't say the same for Vanessa. The reason I was saved from a second violation was because she socked the thing in the back with one of her heels and threw her silver cross necklace at its face, which made it disintegrate.

"The rest of them were bored with me then and went after Vanessa. She started running away from me, so far that I couldn't see her anymore. It wasn't until I heard her scream and a soft thud on the ground that I was able to find her by following the sounds."

I felt wetness pulling at the corners of my eyes, but I forced it back. "She died in my arms. I just sat there, telling her things would be fine, and that I would get her help, but I was so stunned that I couldn't move my legs for the life of me. One of the spirits got her in the stomach, and she bled out all over me. . . ."

* * *

**I blinked, and the tears betrayed me.** I shoved my head into my hands, trying to collect myself, but I only made the crying worse. It had been many, many years since Vanessa's death, and she told me I wasn't to blame, but I always felt guilty whenever I took the moment to truly look at what was left of her—a mere ghost, just her soul. I had lost my best friend—my only friend—because I was too scared to help her. 

I hadn't even given her a proper burial because I didn't have the money and was afraid they'd lock me up for helping her steal money, clothes, and cars from people. Her body lay in a cemetery, but without a coffin and under a simple white cross I made out of spare planks and nails from a nearby construction site, and some paint and a brush from a craft store. I didn't have a priest present to say soft, heartbreaking words about the loss of someone so special, or a crowd of her mourning friends. All I did was pray over her body once it laid six feet underground and cry my eyes out, covered in dirt and grass stains. . . .

Abruptly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped from the sudden movement, but then I realized it was just Monsieur Alucard. I could tell he meant it as a nice gesture, so I didn't recoil, though his hands were awfully cold for being gloved.

I looked up at him and saw the same thing I'd seen in his eyes earlier.

"Monsieur?" I tried sounding refined and composed as I usually did, but my voice cracked at the end of the word.

"You don't have to tell me everything, Lieutenant. If it's too painful, I gladly permit you to gloss over the details," he said, and I felt the same hint of something in his voice as I did in his eyes.

However, I didn't give myself time to contemplate and simply responded.

"Non, it's not that—I want to tell you these things. Monsieur, the only person who really knows me is Vanessa, and she's hardly around anymore. Ever since we moved here to London, she's out almost every night, trying to fulfill the love life she lost when she died." My voice caught in my throat, and the next words came out strangled. "It's very lonely for me here."

"There are plenty of people that would listen to your stories if you gave them the chance," he reminded me, though he didn't move his hand yet.

"I know, but I'm . . . well, I have a hard time trusting many people. Most probably mean well, yet I can't seem to be open with others the way I'd like. I've been betrayed too many times in my life already, and I really haven't lived that long."

I was very unsure of myself, but I gathered up the courage to touch the back of Monsieur Alucard's hand lightly, if only for a moment. "I know I've been a bitch most of the time, but I do enjoy your company. You may not notice it yourself, but there's just something about you that makes me want to trust you."

"Do you trust me?" He sounded so serious. I wasn't sure I wanted to answer.

Still, I swallowed. God was going to hate me. "Yes, I do. I've always thought all vampires were heartless, cruel, and ruthless creatures, and I'm sure you act that way when need be, but you're not like the normal ones. You have morals."

He smiled then, and moved his hand from my shoulder. "I'm a monster, Lieutenant. Don't forget that, or you may find yourself falling."

"Falling how, Monsieur?"

"For me."

My body went cold. "I will remember that, Monsieur, but I do not believe falling will be an issue. There are certain things I can't allow myself to do."

"Really? Why is that, Lieutenant?" he asked, gaining back his usual energy. "You've covered most of your earlier life, but not recent events. Why do you act the way you do?"

I nearly slipped off my chair. I wasn't expecting to reveal _this_ much, at least not this soon, and not to Monsieur Alucard. However, I could feel his presence inside of me, and it wasn't until I heard him talking without a mouth moving that I realized why.

_You just said you trust me_. His voice was pervasive within me; it spread from my mind into my bones, making me shiver. _If that were true, would it matter if it was too soon to reveal your innermost secrets? You would trust me enough to know I won't tell anyone, seeing as you've already told me this discussion is extremely exclusive._

_How are you doing this? _My mind's voice was shrill with outrage. _I'm not overwhelmed at the moment; you're not supposed to have this ability with me!_

_You won't regain your barriers until dawn, Lieutenant_, he told me in all sincerity. _I've read about people who use mental barricades, and if a breach is found and attacked, the victim of telepathy can't use their power again until the next morning._

_Non! That's impossible! _I felt myself beginning to crumble from the inside, and my eyes became blurry with tears.

_If I were impossible, I would not be talking to you in this manner right now. Lieut. Aurelle, please just tell me whatever is on your mind. I'd hate to violate your privacy like this._

"Don't mock me!" I cried aloud, crossing my arms and furrowing my brow. I was growing hysterical. "I've got enough to worry about right now, and I don't need you proving to me that He already knows!"

"Who already knows, Lieutenant?" Monsieur Alucard's voice was calm, unlike my own squawky croaks.

"Who knows, you ask? God, the Lord, the Almighty, _the Man_." I was shaking slightly, and my eyes were wide. "He knows that I've messed up, even though I've been told strictly that I was to obey every order if I wanted to maintain my happiness and be able to see my family in Heaven. But I had to go and screw it up, just like everything I manage to do, and now my powers are being restricted."

"I'm not fluent in the Bible, Lieutenant, but I believe Christians have to be saved to go to Heaven, not just follow orders," he said in a thoughtful tone.

"I _am _saved!" I threw my hands up and hung my head. "However, being saved alone isn't enough for me. My time spent here on Earth all depends on my ability to remain immaculate—in every sense of the word."

He was silent for a moment, and then he sounded skeptical. "Are you Christ's second coming, Lieutenant?"

I looked up, awed. "Of course not. Do you really think Jesus would come here as a woman? No one would buy that."

"Then what exactly are you?"

This is it, God. The secret's out. "I'm an angel."


	7. Brain Dead

**A/N: **_I am happy to announce that I have updated yet again at a rapid pace. This chapter isn't as long as the previous, but I hope it is still as interesting. I'll try to post Chapter Eight as soon as I can, though I haven't written any of it yet. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you for your interest!_

**

* * *

**

**It was silent for a long time.** Monsieur Alucard simply gazed at me, his eyes never moving from mine, and I could feel him searching for something deeper. I tried to keep my cool, although I never did like being examined so closely by anyone; I've always been more comfortable in the audience, watching the person in the spotlight perform. There had been times when I'd been the center of many people's attention before, and even if I did find it enjoyable, it was because of my profession . . . which I will cover some other time, hopefully.

Minutes passed, and I wondered if perhaps Monsieur Alucard had found what he was looking for in me. He sat as still as a marble statue, which I knew was possible for someone without a pulse but was unsettling.

I imagined myself in a field of dead grass, surrounded by sculptures the size of trees. The sky was endlessly black, but for some reason, I could see the intent expression on each statue's stone face. I was dressed in a simple cream-colored, cotton chemise and ballet slippers, and I couldn't remember how I'd found myself in the middle of the stone forest or why I was there.

All I knew was that every statue was staring right at me, and I couldn't remember how to speak or move. Gradually, I felt my lungs begin to stiffen. My breathing halted and I suffocated, all while my skin turned to a cold, haunting pale grey. . . .

I had to stop thinking so morbidly, I reminded myself. People didn't turn into statues, unless you believed in the Greek mythology that led to Medusa. I suppose you could count Pompeii's victims to be statues as well, but being covered with molten lava and frozen in time was a bit different than actually turning to stone.

I shook my head dismissively.

"How do I know you're an angel?" Monsieur Alucard's voice broke the still air then and caught me by surprise. It took me a minute to answer, actually.

"Well, I have wings," I said simply enough after I recovered from the shock.

His eyebrows arched in interest. "There's something I'd like to see."

"All right, but if I need them later on, you're paying for it. I'm a relatively young angel, so I can only summon them once every three days." I sighed. "It will take me centuries to become more powerful."

"If you need to use your wings over the course of the next three days, Lieut. Aurelle, I will cover for you. Consider any enemies that bother you during that time frame slaughtered." He granted me a dark smile.

I thought of Monsieur Alucard before me on the battle field, slaying people as easily as one would break a toothpick, with blood spraying everywhere, and I shuddered. It was a kind gesture, but I hoped I could handle any upcoming combat on my own.

"Your thoughts are quite flattering, Lieutenant," he chuckled. I'd forgotten he could still see inside my mind.

"I'll get this over with," I muttered to myself and lifted from the chair, grabbing my cane along the way. Usually, I would prefer standing straight up, but I didn't feel like stretching the skin over my still-unknown injury. I thought of asking Monsieur Alucard about it suddenly, but I figured I could simply ask him after my little display.

I looked the room over and decided that the best place to stand would be in front of Monsieur Alucard, with my chair moved and a few meters between us—I didn't want my wings to knock anything over, after all. So, I moved the chair and stood before Monsieur Alucard, although I had my side facing him so I wouldn't have to watch him while I did this. Summoning my wings took a lot of concentration.

"All right, watch closely if you will," I instructed. "This sort of thing only takes a few seconds."

* * *

**I closed my eyes on Monsieur Alucard's room,** and focused my mind on peace. I pictured the ocean, just like the one I used to admire when I visited Greece one year; it was a vibrant, enthralling bluish-green, seemingly made out of crystal and far prettier than anything else in the world. Its calm waves would tumble over themselves with bubbling, frothy tips and vanish into the deep only to resurface seconds later.

I remembered standing by the ledge on the cruise ship, my hair done in ringlets that framed my face and flowed down to the end of my shoulder blades. I was wearing a white, sleeveless dress made of silk that went past my toes and skimmed the floor. I tied the dress at my waist with a dark-blue fabric belt and walked the ship barefoot, feeling truly in my element.

Granted, Greece wasn't and can never be my home country, but I wasn't thinking of Greece; I was absorbed with the beauty of the ocean. With the water surrounding me at all sides, the sun shining brightly in the sky, and a soft breeze blowing through my hair, I felt more alive than I could ever remember. It didn't matter that I was only eighteen.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" A beautiful boy—my first love—said from beside me, his arms wrapped around my waist. I could smell the cologne on him, and I reveled in its scent as I knew it would stay on my skin until I washed later. I looked over to him, adored his deep blue eyes, and watched as the wind playfully whisked his black bangs across his forehead.

"Yes. It is wonderful," I told him, my English sounding strained from recent learning.

He smiled and kissed me lightly. "I wish I could stay here with you like this forever, Soleil. . . ."

* * *

**I was forced from my reminiscent daydream by the notion** of my wings' bones solidifying and fusing with my shoulder blades. Unbeknownst to me while in my faraway land, tears had rolled down my cheeks and speckled my nightgown. I wiped at my face and turned around to Monsieur Alucard, feeling the air whoosh around me as I carried my great wings at my back.

"Well? They're lovely, aren't they?" I smiled weakly. My recent memory was so sweet, it hurt—but I wasn't about to let that show. Monsieur Alucard was interested in my seraphic status, not my past, and that memory had nothing to do with being an angel.

He stood from his throne and stepped toward me, circling me several times. I felt his hands graze a wing's bone and stroke a few feathers. Then, he whistled.

"Your wings are gigantic," he mentioned, and I was well aware of that fact. One wing alone has a span nearly thrice the size of my own body.

"The colors are peculiar as well," I heard him mutter thoughtfully. "I've always imagined angels to have silver or gold wings—a color to behold and mystify. Your feathers are lilac and white, with the occasional black."

"Angels with higher status have more extravagant wings," I explained. "Archangels have the nicest, which are usually gold, then the lesser—but still honorable—angels have silver. As the nobility decreases, so does the beauty of the wings."

I added softly, "I'm definitely not that important to God's overall kingdom. Angels with hardly any significance at all are given mismatched feathers . . . and an angel's feathers turn black the more he or she does wrong."

"I don't see how you can be expected to act perfectly," Monsieur Alucard replied as he ran a hand across my wing's bone, "especially when you are given the task of living with vampires and killing Catholics."

I stifled a shiver from his hand's presence on me. "Every angel has that expectation—most of them simply stay in Heaven the whole time."

"Without as much temptation," he added, and I nodded in assent. "Lieutenant, I think you've been cheated."

I smiled. "It wouldn't be the first time, Monsieur."

He moved back to his throne and sprawled out in the same casual way he had before. _It must be nice to allow yourself to act so laid-back_, I thought as I took out my chair again and sat.

"I'm not always this calm, Lieutenant," he answered my thoughts. "However, being around you is quite serene."

I tried not to blush; he was probably just trying to flatter me. "Do you believe me now, Monsieur Alucard?" I asked.

"Well, judging from your wings, and the ability you have to melt metal with your hands. . . ."

I gawked. "How did you know. . . .?"

"You freed me from my shackles at the Catholic-infested cathedral by using that talent," he reminded me with a smirk, and I remembered. "You didn't think I noticed."

"Non, I didn't," I murmured.

Abruptly, his smirk faded. "I believe you, Lieutenant, but I'm still curious." He paused, perhaps for dramatic effect. "How did you die?"

I gulped. This was going to be fun to remember. . . .

* * *

_**I woke with a stir, the bright ceiling lights** at the infirmary scalding my weary eyes. I was reclined, so I couldn't see my legs, and it was hard to see my arms over the thick gauze plastered to my face. My entire body ached with an unbearable, itching, burning sensation, though my left arm and legs held a different kind of pain. The agony I felt there is indescribable; worse than wolves eating into your bones cannot even begin to paint a picture. It drove me completely insane, making me long to tear my body apart just to end it all._

_A nurse passed by, her curly red hair bobbing and eyes a distant green. I tried calling out to her, but I couldn't make my mouth move. I willed my arms to wave and legs kick, so I could attract attention to myself, but nothing seemed to be working. My eyes wouldn't blink. Yet somehow, I was still breathing. . . . _

"_What the hell happened to me?!" I cried out desperately, but only in my mind. More nurses passed me by, a doctor or two, an anaesthesiologist, but no one noticed me screaming. My legs and arms still wouldn't move._

"_Hey!" I yelled with all my might, but my mouth was glued tight. "Listen to me!"_

_No one would. I was talking to myself, screaming with a voice no one could hear. I wanted to cry, but it was if someone stopped up my tear ducts. So I wept silently, all within the confines of my brain._

_I needed to look away from this, I thought. If I could just focus on something else, like the fine stitching in the gauze around me, I might calm down a little bit. But my eyes wouldn't budge and began to sting from the lack of blinking._

_My weeping only intensified. How could this be happening to me? Why couldn't I move, and why was everyone around me walking around like it was no big deal? This made no sense. . . ._

"_She looks so peaceful," a woman said from beside me, though the sound was muffled from the bandages around my head. She wasn't in my line of sight, so I didn't notice her before._

"_No one really knows how she's feeling," a man on the other side of me answered. He had the authoritative tone of a surgeon. "She's brain-dead."_

"_The hell I am," I told him, even if he didn't seem to hear me. I wasn't going to give up; at some point, _someone_ had to notice my struggle._

"_Why do you keep her alive, Dr. Browinski?" the lady wondered._

"_We haven't gotten a message from her parents yet signifying if it's all right for us to turn the machines off," he replied casually, as if I wasn't in the most agonizing throes of my life right beside him._

"_What do you mean, 'her' parents?" I recognized the speaker that time; it was Lieut. Thompson. He led my platoon on the battle field, and even though he was hard-nosed and stubborn, he was a very nice man if you got to know him._

"_Lieut. Thompson," the doctor sounded surprised. "I wasn't expecting you to visit Pvt. Shorupska."_

"_He was in my platoon, goddamn it," Lieut. Thompson sounded outraged. "Not to mention Shorupska here is one of my best men. Why the hell wouldn't I visit him?"_

"_Well, I have some confusion to clear up," Dr. Browinski remained annoyingly nonchalant, even with Lieut. Thompson sounding like he was about to jump someone._

"_What?" Lieut. Thompson asked impatiently._

"_Pvt. Shorupska is a woman."_

_It was silent for a moment. "What the hell do you mean?"_

"_When we had to strip him of his clothing and gear to operate, we found immediately that . . . well, he is a she. Apparently, the true Jason Shorupska is back at home, finishing high school and preparing for college. This girl must have filled in for him to allow him a regular life."_

"_You're really a girl, Shorupska?" Lieut. Thompson was addressing me now. He moved to look at me through my eyes, and I could see a glimmer of something in his eyes._

"_Sorry, Lieutenant," I sighed, but he didn't acknowledge me with an insult or loud curse with his American accent._

"_She can't hear you," the woman told him._

"_Stay the fuck out of this!" I growled at her. She continued talking._

"_Dr. Browinski has confirmed that she's . . . brain-dead," she said in a hushed tone. "As soon as there's word from her parents in the States, we can let her rest peacefully."_

"_Good luck trying to reach my parents from beyond the grave," I spat._

"_I don't understand," Lieut. Thompson sounded subdued, which was scary to hear. He was usually so gung-ho and lively . . . now, he was on the verge of being pathetic._

"_Shorupska was—"_

"_We're not sure that's even her real name, Lieutenant," the woman cut him off, and I felt like strangling her._

_Apparently, so did the lieutenant, for his next words were bitter. "I don't care what his—uh, her—name is. This private stepped on a hidden ground grenade. How does that make a person go brain-dead?"_

"_When her legs and arms were blown off, she bled profusely and suffered from a terrible amount of blood loss. This caused various parts of her brain to die slowly, until nothing that a person could use to function normally was left. It's only her body alive right now."_

"_What? My legs and arms are. . . ." My head began to spin. "But then how can I still feel them?"_

"_Why can't you just pull the plug now?" Lieut. Thompson questioned the doctor. "I would hate to be stuck in a body like that."_

"_Whatever soul this woman had is gone." Dr. Browinski sounded so sure. I felt sick._

"_Well, it's not right to talk about someone like they're not even there when you're standing next to their body," the lieutenant pointed out. "We should go."_

"_Of course," Dr. Browinski agreed._

_The woman and doctor were soon gone; I could hear their footsteps trailing off into the distance. However, Lieut. Thompson stayed at my bedside for a moment after, looking me into the eyes with nearly tangible sadness._

"_I'm sorry this had to happen to you." He put his hand on my chest, right above my heart. "I don't care what the doctors and nurses around here say, you know; if I can still feel your heart beating, how can you be gone?"_

_I felt myself beginning to crumble. "I hope they treat you good in the after life, Shorupska . . . um, whoever you are. You're definitely one of the toughest ladies I've met in a long time."_

* * *

**I couldn't remember anymore. **It was too painful.

My body was shaking horridly, and my breath came in short, sputtered gasps. I heard a strangled voice in the distance, but I soon realized it was my own, saturated with long-forgotten sobs and whimpers. I hugged myself as tight as I could, but I still felt the way my skin never seemed to stop burning, and how my arms and legs still felt like phantoms, merely memories of the limbs I used to own. My wings were pulled in tautly around me so no one could see past their broad, long feathers and stare at my weakness.

I felt someone trying to pry through my wings' shield.

"Lieut. Aurelle, don't hide from me," said Monsieur Alucard in his smooth, deep voice.

I pulled my wings closer. "I need to be alone for a moment." I tried to fake my usual reserve, but I failed pitifully.

"No, you don't. The reason you're crashing in this way is due to your habit of bottling everything inside. I bet you didn't even tell Vanessa how you died."

He was right. At the moment, Monsieur Alucard was the only person who knew how I'd died besides me—but I was not about to tell him.

"Give me a minute," I pleaded. "I don't want to talk about it."

"When is the last time someone showed you affection, Lieutenant?"

The question was so alien, I didn't know how to answer at first. However, it didn't sound important, so I answered sourly, "I can't remember."

"How about now?"

I was too shocked to cry.

"I try to show the most minute amount of concern for you, and you push me away. Well, I suppose that is what I get for being nice to angels. No wonder I was never fond of this emotion."

I unfolded my wings slowly, unsure of what I'd just heard. "Monsieur, you care about me?"

"I'm not heartless." He made it sound like it was obvious.

"But me? Even after the way I've treated you?"

"Lieutenant, hardly anyone is fond of vampires, especially ones with reputations like mine." He smiled. "Besides, you broke your relentless code of honor for me. I was given the chance to taste a bit of your blood, which has the most intoxicating flavor."

"I gave you blood because you needed it." I thought about that for a moment. "You _did_ need it, right?"

His grin only broadened. "You'd always treated me with so much disdain and repugnance, I began to ponder exactly how deeply those feelings ran. Once you offered me blood without even a minute's hesitation, I knew your disgust was all for show. To top it all off, you didn't just sacrifice a drop, but a vein's worth, of blood for me."

"I _don't_ like vampires," I stated firmly. "I've never liked vampires."

"I know," he leered with a sly smile, "but somewhere in that lively heart of yours, there is a chamber gushing with your sweet blood dedicated to me."

I felt my stomach plummet to the tips of my toes, and Monsieur Alucard laughed. "That is a face I will forever find amusing."

Suddenly, a faint sifting sound filled my ears. I looked around the room until my eyes trained on Vanessa, her ghost a ghastly sight to see in such a setting. Her gaze bounced back and forth between me and Monsieur Alucard, her eyes wide with perfidy and mouth agape in outrage.


	8. Alone, Without a Secret

_A/N: I've been listening to an increased amount of classical music, and it's beautiful but saddening. While writing this chapter, I listened to a playlist on my iPod full of classical piano songs and otherwise sad, sappy music. So, if this chapter comes off as being very emotional, you know why. Regardless, enjoy!_

* * *

**Vanessa stood motionlessly,** except for her hands trembling as they balled into fists. Her usually carefree, lively-spirited brown eyes were dark and purling with anger. Behind the anger, I could see sparkling, intangible tears beginning to swell at the corner of her eyes. Still, she said nothing.

I lifted from the chair as fast as I could without hurting myself, grabbed my cane, and stood before my otherworldly friend. "Vanessa, I can explain. . . ."

She shook her head. "You don't have to explain to me. Just tell me one thing: is that really how you died?"

I bit my lip, but after a few seconds, I said, "Yes, Vanessa. They turned the machines off a few days after Lieut. Thompson's visit."

She looked hurt. "Why didn't you tell me? I don't know anything about your life during that war. Don't you remember? I wasn't allowed to accompany you and 'taint' any souls that would be leaving the dead bodies of so many people, as God said."

She sulked. "The only reason I'm allowed to be here right now is because there's already so many dead, hell-bound things that I can't do much harm."

"Vanessa, I wanted to tell you and I was going to later tonight when your night with Dempsey was done." I was being completely honest about that one.

"You had to wait until tonight? You had to tell a vampire before me?" She looked angry again. "You're not supposed to be hanging around vampires, Soleil. I know you, and you end up growing attached to things if you spend a lot of time with them."

I blushed. That was very true; as I said before in Vanessa's absence, I had grown to trust Monsieur Alucard. It would probably only grow worse if I associated with him more. . . .

"You're already attached." My thoughts shattered as I heard the grave certainty in Vanessa's voice. She was staring at me now, her brown eyes glittering with a fear that seemed full-grown but previously long-ignored.

"I didn't say that." I tried to reassure her, but I was doubting myself even as I said the words.

"Your eyes say everything, Soleil. They always have."

I couldn't bear the raw emotion in her irises that seemed to solidify her body into its human form of days long ago. My heart was beginning to ache in the hollow space that has been with me since childhood, and I knew it was because of Vanessa.

"You won't be able to kill him now," she whispered, but it sounded as if she was trying to convince herself more than I. Then, her eyes met mine. "I hope you know that, Soleil. I hope you know that our plan in now ruined. There's no way you can avoid punishment now."

"I'm sorry." It was the only thing I could say.

"Goodbye, Soleil." She turned away and began to melt through the wall. "I'm staying with Dempsey for a while."

She was gone.

* * *

**Facing Monsieur Alucard again was difficult.** I knew without asking that he'd heard every word exchanged between Vanessa and me, which also meant he knew now that I felt some bond between us. It was uncomfortable for me to accept because I knew only more pain waited for me now, but there was no going back. I only hoped Monsieur Alucard wasn't offended and prayed halfheartedly that there was still a chance this wasn't permanent.

I folded my wings and took the seat before him, but I refused to make eye contact. "I'm sorry you had to hear everything, Monsieur Alucard. I should have taken the discussion outside."

He didn't seem to hear my words; right away, he asked the question I hoped I could avoid. "Do you honestly feel attached to me?"

God, I hope You aren't listening right now. "On a certain level, Monsieur Alucard, I dofeel that I'm attached to you."

"Yet you were planning to kill me," he said softly, and I couldn't ignore the feeling in his voice. My eyes rose to look in his, but they were angled away from me and to the floor.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that."

He kept his eyes away. "Why did you bother talking to me so much?"

"I was trying to get to know you," I bit my lip, "and eventually, I hoped to find a weakness."

"Sir Integra would have had your head," he said angrily.

"God told me once you were finished off, my mission was done. If I died afterward, I would simply go straight to Heaven."

He shook his head, raised his eyes to mine, and rested his cheek against his hand. "How do you plan on vanquishing me now?"

Once again, God, please flick to another channel. "I don't."

"You must still have the desire to see me struck down, Lieutenant," he sneered. "You hate vampires, and you always will."

That hit me hard. "I said I trust you."

"What does that change?" He scowled.

"It changes everything!"

I ran my hands through my hair with a sigh to calm myself.

"Monsieur Alucard, I hated you before I met you—that is true. That is why I was such a right bitch in the beginning. No matter, I followed out with the plan and tried to know you. It helped that you couldn't read my mind and tell what I thought, which was almost always completely different from what I said."

My blood pressure was beginning to drop.

"However, the more I learned about you, the less I focused on my purpose and the more I genuinely wanted to know. You can hold conversation better than anyone I've met in a long time. You don't cut me off mid-sentence or complain when I act most impolitely. I can talk at length as I am now, and you will listen to my every word—or at least pretend. If I break down into tears, you don't tell me to pull myself together and act like a lieutenant; you seem to know that I need to get rid of some things after keeping them pent-up for so long."

I exhaled. "More important, you don't make fun of my accent."

He smiled only slightly. I continued. "The point is, Monsieur Alucard, I haven't met anyone like you in my entire life. Vanessa is a bit like you, but you seem to understand some things better than she probably ever will. I've trusted you with many things, and I don't get the feeling that you'll have a problem keeping those things a secret. I've never been this open with someone over such a short period of time. Even with Vanessa, it took me years to tell her the slightest bit of something personal.

"It would be an insult and a disgrace to my father for me to harm you in any way now. And I refuse to dishonor my father for anything, including Heaven."

I swallowed back the lump that was forming in my throat. "After all, God is the one who took him from me. I don't want to fight for someone who hurt me before I could know what hurt was."

Monsieur Alucard grinned sadly. "Why were you fighting for Him in the first place?"

"When I died, there wasn't a place for me anywhere in the afterlife other than limbo, and God didn't think that was a fair place to be. So, I had to return to Earth again and help kill off a few vampires—you were to be my main focus, for God had several problems with you in the past.

"If I did as instructed, my place in Heaven would be finalized. If I declined from the offer, I would immediately be tossed into limbo. If I failed . . . well, Hell's gates are always open for fallen angels. They are, in fact, owned by the most famous one."

I shrugged. "I am not the biggest fan of God, but I was even less excited about burning in Hell for all eternity. Besides, I'd grown to despise vampires, so the deal seemed all too easy. I accepted without a second's thought. I had no idea I was to live with you until Sir Integra told me to not mind you after welcoming me into the organization."

"That is when you began to trick me," he said without ease.

"I got the idea after I spent a few nights here. Vanessa was actually the one that suggested I'd play dirty. That is why it upset her so much when she saw I'd given up on the scheme."

"Oh, she is going to tell Dempsey about everything. I'm sure she already has her assumptions about us, too." I slumped back in the chair. "This is not going to be easy."

"What could Vanessa possibly assume about us, Lieutenant?"

I stared at him in raw disbelief. "You're joking."

His face remained blank. "I'm afraid I'm not. Should I deem this a laughing matter?"

"Monsieur Alucard, Vanessa does not like you. I have a habit of forming relationships with men Vanessa does not like."

"What kind of relationships?"

"Love-based relationships," I whispered as I gathered a fistful of my nightgown's skirt in my hand. "She has pointed out this pattern to me in the past. She must believe I have that type of connection with you. Finding me in your room while you spoke of my heart having a place for you will not help me convince her otherwise, either."

He smiled with bedroom eyes. "I'll enjoy making Vanessa's evidence of a beautiful, fiery, passionate relationship between us stronger."

I cleared my throat. "Monsieur, you may try to do that all you want, but I will not help you. I want to clear the idea from Vanessa's mind as soon as possible."

"Why? It would be fun to mess with her head for a while."

"Doing so will be weaving a long, intricate lie," I said firmly. "I may not agree with everything God has set me out to do, but I will not lie—especially to my best friend."

He sighed. "I should have guessed you'd feel that way. You are an angel."

"I don't see what would make the thought of an affair with me appealing, anyway." My heart was sinking. "I know I must be far from the most beautiful woman you've ever seen. Simply look at Sir Integra."

Monsieur Alucard smiled. "Lieutenant, Miss Hellsing is my master, but I do not defend her out of the type of love you mention. I met her when she was very young; she is a daughter to me."

"I'm sorry," I murmured, suddenly feeling tears pull at the corners of my eyes. "Such love is foreign."

He was quiet for a moment after that.

* * *

**When he finally spoke,** it was soft but sad. "Are all angels this unhappy?"

I examined the wrinkles in my skin on my knuckles so he couldn't see my glasses starting to fog. "I can't imagine so."

"You don't know how to be happy, do you?"

A clear, wet dot splashed the back of my hand. I didn't answer.

"Whenever you smile, there is always sadness tucked away at its edges. Not many people seem to notice because you've perfected the mask you wear over the years. You begin to mistake the mask for your true self, and eventually, who your true identity is lost."

Two more dots fell.

"You've always wondered what happiness must feel like. You experiment with slivers of it, but they always vanish quickly, and you're never presented with the whole. Sometimes, you can forget about what's holding you down, and you come very close to truly feeling it—but something always reminds you of your burden too soon. So you continue to hide behind the mask and hope no one noticed when you'd let it slip down your face slightly."

Three more dots.

"You might consider ending it all if that didn't seem so cowardly. You were raised to be strong, and you can't disgrace your roots by running away from your battles, even if you are only battling yourself. Besides, you aren't capable of deciding your fate so indefinitely. Even if you tried, knowing all of your weaknesses, there is a great chance you will fail. You could live for centuries more, depending on the length of your journey, and watch friends come and go while you age not a day."

Five dots.

"Your past makes it hard for you to trust anyone, and humans are always objects of envy, even if you rarely admit it. They fear death, which makes your blood boil on an extreme level. They don't seem to realize that death is not the scary part, but the life following it."

Six dots.

"Their ignorance is not the height of your jealousy, however. What truly bothers you is their freedom to live blissfully and sinfully without thinking a thing of it because in the end, they can always enter Heaven if they desire it deeply enough. But not you."

Nine dots.

"Your fate was sealed when you died the first time. The light at the end of your tunnel evanesced before you could even open your eyes to catch a glimpse. Careless choices and poor mistakes have ripped you of all chances at happiness, the only thing you've ever wanted. That kills you, figuratively speaking. Yet you will not tell anyone or let that pain show, in fear of letting down those who need you. You would never forgive yourself if you disappointed them. They are all you have."

I was crying now. I tried wrapping my wings around me, but I felt Monsieur Alucard hold them back. I was too weak to fight, so I folded my wings at my back and laid my glasses in my lap before hiding my face in my hands. He remained silent as I fell to pieces, but I heard him kneel before me and felt his hands on mine as he tried to uncover my face. I didn't resist, but I did turn my head away once he held my hands. I didn't want to be seen in this condition.

"You don't have to be ashamed, Lieutenant." His voice was so gentle. I began to cry harder. "I understand completely."

I wept for a few minutes, Monsieur Alucard holding my hands all the while. When I stopped, he let go of my hands so I could wipe my face, but he didn't move from his place at my feet. I realized quickly that he wasn't going to move until I said something, so I sniffled, put on my glasses, and let loose my now-hoarse voice.

"I've never had someone read me so . . . accurately," I whispered while I kept my eyes away.

"I have exceptional experience," Monsieur Alucard crooned.

"You are able to see all people as they really are." It sounded more like a question than a statement.

"No, I rarely relate to others on such a level."

I whipped my head around. "Relate?"

"You feel as I do," he sighed, and I felt tears well up when I looked in his eyes. They looked so troubled, so deeply wounded, so heartsick . . . it was pain on a scale I'd never truly felt before. Monsieur Alucard hid this side of him so expertly . . . just as he sensed about me.

I was on the verge of sobbing. "Monsieur Alucard. . . ."

He raised a hand. "Don't cry for my sake, Lieutenant. An angel should not shed tears for a monster."

"If an angel was an angel at all, she would look past the monster's words and know that he was just afraid of someone understanding him as well as he did." I placed a hand at his cheek and ignored the frigid temperature. "She would also know that the monster isn't a monster at all. Monsters don't have hearts, and you need a heart to feel pain."

He took my hand roughly from his face and got to his feet. "You should head to your room now."

I was too shocked to respond.

"Walter will be down here any minute now, and I'm sure you'll like to be in bed before I drink." His voice was rugged and angry, two things I didn't comprehend.

"Monsieur Alucard, why are you so upset with me? Was it something I said? I didn't mean to offend you. . . ." I was so lost.

"Just grab your cane and leave."

I was beginning to ache all over. "Won't you please show me the way again? I can't remember what stairs to take or what turns to make."

He sat down in his throne. "Ask someone for directions."

I forced down the lump in my throat and blinked back the tears. My voice still cracked. "You don't know how I feel, Monsieur Alucard. If you did, you'd feel your heart breaking."

I took my cane, hid my wings, and headed for the door. I struggled to suppress my anger and sorrow while I guessed on what route to follow until I recognized my surroundings. Once I reached my room, I collapsed on my bed and cried harder than I had since Vanessa's death.

* * *

"**Miss Lynette . . . er, Soleil?"**

I knew that raspy voice straightaway, and only one person called me by such a title. I kept my face beneath my pillows and tried to swallow back the second wave of agony before I started crying in front of Dempsey.

"Miss Soleil, I would like to speak with you," Dempsey said again, forever soft-spoken and affectionate. I wondered why men had to change after the 1800s.

From the sound of it, I guessed that Dempsey had moved from the other side of the room to the side of my bed. I felt an ethereal flutter of light grace my shoulder briefly and my breath caught in my throat.

"Please, Miss Soleil. This is very important."

I drew in a deep breath and revealed my face, my cheeks sore and eyes feeling bloodshot. My hair was a mess from hiding under the pillow; I could feel how disheveled it must have appeared. I swiped the flat brush from my night stand and tried to untangle the knots before putting on my glasses. Finally, I looked over to Dempsey.

"Oh, Miss Soleil, you look terrible," Dempsey gasped when he locked my gaze. He was sitting next to me on the bed.

"I'm not feeling well," I sighed. I looked down to the sheets covering my legs and mentally traced the creases.

"I'm having Vanessa stay with me for a few days; she needs to calm down before she returns to you."

"If she returns to me," I muttered gloomily.

"Miss Soleil, Vanessa is very hotheaded. I've only known her a few months and have figured that out." I watched one of Dempsey's gloved, translucent hands overlap mine. Unlike Monsieur Alucard, Dempsey radiated warmth, and when I looked up, so did his smile.

"She's just afraid for your sake. She believes that Mr. Alucard may put you in danger," he spoke calmly. "Vanessa does not want to see you hurt, and neither do I."

I tried grinning back, but as soon as I made the effort, I felt my eyes start to water and gave up. "Thank you, Dempsey. You're very kind."

"Don't let Vanessa upset you, Miss Soleil. I can tell you've been crying tonight."

I exhaled deeply. "Well, I'm worried, Dempsey. I feel like this is the one time I can't afford to be alone. I'm usually stronger than this, but I've just been having trouble keeping up my stamina lately. Even before I was injured, I wasn't feeling at my best."

"Something else ails you," Dempsey whispered. He moved his hand from mine and to the edge of my cheek.

"It's insignificant, really." I attempted a fake smile.

His hand left my face and fell at its place at his side. "Well, if you ever need someone, I'm always here."

"That means a lot, Dempsey. I'll keep that in mind." Even though I would probably never have the strength to trust someone for a very long time. . . .

"Anyway, I wanted to tell you that Vanessa is safe with me, and I'll help get her head on straight as soon as possible. Oh, and try not to preoccupy yourself with this matter. It isn't as bad as you think." He rose from my bed. "Now, you should sleep. You look very worn."

"Thanks for stopping by," I grinned halfheartedly. "Please, don't hesitate to visit again soon."

He chuckled. "I'll come back tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Good night, Miss Soleil."

"Good night."

Once Dempsey left, it took me a minute before I fell back against my pillows. He was benign beyond words; if Vanessa hadn't told me he was a criminal in his living days, I would have never suspected. He had died by execution . . . and yet he didn't seem to hold a grudge against anyone or have a hard time showing compassion. We didn't know each other too well, but he was so open with me. . . .

And why shouldn't I be in return? Dempsey was good-natured and bighearted . . . the opposite of Monsieur Alucard; I truly saw that now. Yet I couldn't admit to Dempsey what was really bothering me, and that wasn't nearly as personal as what I told the vampire earlier.

I collided with my pillows while in the middle of a sigh. I didn't deserve to be an angel. They never acted this stupidly or afraid.

* * *

**Sleep was not generous that night.** I woke just a few hours after sunrise and still felt unimaginably drained. My side was throbbing and I could see a dark, wet patch over the wound through my nightgown when I got out of bed. I wasn't sure how I'd torn any stitches or staples—I didn't know which ones I had—but I supposed it was possible. I don't move around in my sleep, but I definitely hadn't taken it easy the night before.

I looked back at the bed and saw I'd bled out onto the sheets as well. A curse escaped my lips. The only thing I could do was go back to the hospital wing and be closed up again . . . and hope Walter wasn't too bothered by my blood being all over the white linens.

It took me a long time to reach the hospital wing. I used an elevator that I'd found on my way back to my room the night before, but I still had to walk down various floors and across many hallways until I reached my destination. By the time I reached the main desk, I was out of breath and the pain in my side had increased tenfold.

"It's very early for you to visit," the woman remarked. She looked stressed and tired, which, I imagined, must have added years to her appearance.

"I need to see a surgeon," I said in-between gasps for air. "I tore open my wound somehow."

"What surgery did you have done?"

I waited a few seconds until I could breathe normally. "Well, I was unconscious for days before and after the operation. But I know I have either stitches or staples above my left hip."

"You didn't ask anyone what happened to you?" Everything about her tone suggested she felt superior. That set me off.

"I'm not really concerned as to the reason I'm injured. I just want to see a doctor before I need a blood transfusion. Do you think you could do that for me?"

"I could if you'd stop being so rude." She retorted sourly. "Now, what do you like to call yourself?"

Keep calm, I told myself. "My name is Lieutenant Lynette Margaux Aurelle."

"Lieut. Aurelle," she said as she pulled out a manila folder. She skimmed over the paper. "You were in here just a few days ago after being attacked while on a mission to recover Hellsing's wildcard."

"Yes, that sounds right."

"You reportedly suffered severe lacerations from an improvised bayonet. The attacker was one Alexander Anderson of the Vatican's secret branch, Iscariot Section XIII."

"Oh." That was delightful. My former priest gashed me.

"You were knocked unconscious for reasons unknown, but were carried away by Hellsing's wildcard before you could be further wounded. You were then handed to platoon sergeant Michael Bentley and transported safely back to headquarters, whereupon Dr. Caldwell sutured three separate skin tears. Dr. Caldwell had you kept here a few days afterward to make sure you didn't sustain a concussion from your fall and were healing properly."

The woman cleared her throat. "Well, you've gone through a lot lately, haven't you?"

"I suppose so." A few moments ago, I was ready to jump this lady; now, I didn't feel well.

"You are lucky, however. This states all three cuts missed any vital organs, though barely." She closed the folder and picked up the phone's receiver. "I'll call in Dr. Caldwell right away. You may have a seat."

"Thank you."

Once in a chair, I began thinking about what the receptionist had just read to me. The same man I had lived with for part of my childhood and had always treated me with benevolence attempted to kill me. The vampire I had despised saved me . . . the same vampire that tore me down after putting so much faith in him. My own platoon sergeant had to carry me to safety back at the mansion. . . .

Things certainly weren't going well for me.

"Lieut. Aurelle?"

I looked up and saw a robust man with greying blonde hair, a thick moustache, and thinly-framed glasses smiling at me. He wore a long white coat and a name tag that clearly read DR. JEREMY E. CALDWELL atop a pair of dress pants and black, sensible shoes.

"Bonjour, Dr. Caldwell," I grinned feebly. My side was smarting relentlessly.

"Let's have a look at those stitches, shall we?"

* * *

**Dr. Caldwell sewed my wounds up easily **and was glad I hadn't done extensive damage. He was curious as to how I managed to rip the cuts open, but I wasn't comfortable with admitting where I'd been and what I'd done in the past few hours, so I faked it and said I tried walking around with my cane because I didn't think I needed it. That seemed to be good enough for the doctor, for he just shook his head and informed me that the cane was a necessity in my state of health.

He then told me to take it easy, clean the cuts regularly, and change the bandages at least twice every day. I was to come back in five days to have the stitches removed. After that, my schedule would be back to normal.

Before I was out the door with my cane, Dr. Caldwell reminded me that he'd have Walter bring up gauze pads, surgical tape, and hydrogen peroxide later. I thanked him and said I'd see him in five days.

After that, I can safely say my day was fairly dull and monotonous.

I took a shower, brushed my teeth, washed my face with astringent, put in my contacts, and combed my hair back into a pony tail all at a sluggish pace. I took my time picking out what clothes I wanted to wear that day—I went through my whole closet just trying to find something casual that wasn't a pair of pajamas. Eventually, I found a pair of black sweatpants and a white T-shirt with the words "L'amour Est Bleu" in cerulean cursive writing on the front and a faded black rose at the left sleeve. I made sure I took forever while dressing myself.

However, I was done before I realized it and couldn't think of what else to do.

I had a small television at one end of my room, so I sat down in the sofa before it and watched the news for about an hour. However, everything either focused on the royal family and well-to-do celebrities or was amazingly depressing. I gave up after hearing about a fourteen-year-old girl being raped by her rich uncle.

None of the other channels were interesting. Watching an Italian woman prepare a batch of cannoli with chocolate shavings mixed in with the sweet, soft filling only made my stomach growl. When I flicked off the tube, Walter walked in my room and carted in my breakfast. We talked for a minute, then I ate as slowly as I could manage. Afterward, I tried reading from about eight o' clock until half past ten, but I began to feel restless and caged.

I was a lieutenant; I was supposed to be up and about, running around while telling men what to do and showing them how to properly fire a rifle. I needed to do some push ups, jog a few laps around the grounds, and yell at Toyley while he sweated and fought his way through an obstacle course. I needed to argue with Capt. Bernadette or have him fluster me with a raunchy comment. I wanted to do something physically _exhausting_ . . . but such activity was off-limits. Those stupid cuts were forcing me to lounge around in my small room all day.

It wasn't fair. Why couldn't Father Anderson be the one in bed for a few days?

_Well, that train of thought isn't going to make me feel much better_, I decided soon enough.

Suddenly, I remembered how I'd recently purchased a laptop with the money I had left over from my previous life—God had been kind enough to pass it onto my life as Lieut. Aurelle. I rustled through my closet and found it in a messenger bag at the corner, then promptly sat back down on my bed. I'd subscribed to the internet in case I ever needed an escape from boredom (very good thinking, indeed), so I allowed the laptop to connect to its server while I took a bathroom break.

Walter must have slipped in while I was in the bathroom, for my breakfast tray was gone when I returned. I dismissed the thought, opened an online search engine, and typed in "angels" just to see what popped up. Amazingly, all the angels in pictures were beautiful creatures in white robes with blonde hair and gigantic, feathery wings—not at all describing me. I read a few articles on the definition of seraphs and even skimmed through some angel love stories, but the descriptions weren't accurate and the stories never tortured the fallen angel as much as he or she would be in reality. Humanity really didn't know what to think of angels and Heaven, I surmised.

That was both a relief and disappointment.

I signed off the internet, closed the browser, and shut the laptop in grief. There was nothing to do and too much time.

It was now when my mind started wandering. I thought about how much fun I could be having if only Vanessa were there with me. We would talk about anything and everything; we'd laugh and cry, smile and sigh, but most of all, we'd be together. I would have my best friend here with me. I'd be able to tell her how hard things were getting, and she would listen and try to comfort me. I could tell her how I'd never felt this hurt before, and she would be angry at Monsieur Alucard for being the cause of it.

That was just a dream, I reminded myself. Vanessa was not here with me; she left after finding me in Monsieur Alucard's room and felt betrayed by my ability to share more with a vampire than her. She was already angry at Monsieur Alucard—she had been ever since the day those two met—but now, she was also angry at me. After blowing me off, she ran to Dempsey and was going to stay there until she cooled down—and knowing Vanessa, that could take forever.

It probably wouldn't have been so dismal a matter if I had at least one person to talk to during daylight hours. Dempsey was busy taking care of Vanessa, Vanessa was busy being bitter, and Monsieur Alucard was asleep.

I didn't want to talk to Monsieur Alucard after what happened last night, I admitted, but to know he was there for me would help. I could apologize if I had to, even if I still didn't know what I did wrong. My ego wouldn't suffer from taking the blame. I just wanted someone to keep me company; that's all that mattered.

_I don't even have God anymore,_ I realized. _He knows what I've done, and no amount of repentance is going to erase it. If I pray, He won't hear me. If I start to cry, I'll just be wasting tears. No one is here for me. I truly am alone._

My eyes were starting to water, so I took out my contacts before I lost them and decided to sleep until Walter brought in my lunch.


	9. A Guilty Conscience

_A/N: It's been quite a while since I've worked on this fanfiction, hasn't it? Well, to the delight of my friend Danika, I've officially decided to start dedicating some time to it again. I'm sorry it took me so long to update, but I promise new chapters will be more frequent now._

_Anyway, that's all I really felt I needed to say. Happy reading!_

* * *

_**A few hours later. . . .**_

I woke up screaming. My skin was clammy, my mouth dry and eyes aching with the raw feeling often experienced after many tears have been shed. The room was spinning, my ceiling fan creaking while the walls inhaled and exhaled. I could hear my teeth chattering and feel myself shivering.

I sat up, grappled for the rest of the thick sheets on my bed, and wrapped the quilt around me. Monochromatic and painfully slow, the memories flashed behind my eyes like a silent film set to strobe lights. The only difference was the movie wasn't exactly silent; no intelligible words could be made out, but I could still hear the tortured screams of my friends and their brothers, and I could feel the deep rattle in my bones as the gunshots ripped through the air and bombs detonated not even a few miles away.

My muscles began to tense. I could hear my voice, a distant strangled squeal caught between vocal chords. The sunlight filtering through my window was beginning to fade away, threatening to leave me in the darkness, alone with my memories. The squealing became louder and more distressed.

I closed my eyes, and the pictures began again. The gunshots were clearer, the screams more defined, the scent of blood metallic and gruesomely recognizable. Then, I could see him, and my heart began to fail. I could see his desperate eyes, staring up at me, knowing that this would be the last time we would ever be together. His smile was optimistic but faint, his voice deep but decaying, and I could feel his hands on mine again. I suddenly remembered how his warmth began to fade right before me, until I was left with nothing more than a cold frame of someone I used to love.

The squeals turned into sobs. Hysterical, guilty, tormented sobs. My entire body shook as the tears welled up and poured out of me. I was beginning to tear at my seams, and would have continued to spiral downward if someone hadn't pulled me back into the present.

"Lieutenant Aurelle?" The voice was familiar, but I couldn't place it. I looked to my left and saw a face I wished I hadn't known so well.

My breath caught in my throat, but I forced it down while I tried to keep my voice level. "Bonsoir, Capt. Bernadette," I whispered, deliberately avoiding his eyes while I wiped away the tears.

"I heard you haven't been taking this injury too easily . . . but I didn't think you were taking it this _hard_," he said while he cautiously approached my bed.

"It was just a nightmare," I reassured him—and myself. I sniffled and looked up at him again.

He was quiet, and his face was very solemn. "Memories?"

I sighed. "Yes. They never really seem to go away completely. I've been trying all day to. . . ."

A flutter of war scenes flashed before me. That pained, desperate face whirled past my eyes, and the echo of that soft voice calling my name invaded my ears.

I shook my head to try and rattle the memories loose.

"It just isn't easy having so much idle time on my hands. My mind tends to wander, and . . . well, it's hard to distract myself sometimes," I sighed.

"I think that's a constant struggle for all of us." Capt. Bernadette sounded thoughtful. In fear of eventually delving into anything private, I quickly tried changing subjects.

"Well, what brings you up here?"

"Oh, I just came to check up on you, and to make sure you didn't rip your stitches again." He smiled. "What exactly were you doing that made you tear your side like that?"

I tilted my head down slightly in an attempt to hide the color rising to my cheeks. "Something I shouldn't have. Having to 'take it easy' is very difficult for me."

"Ah, it's no reason to be ashamed." I was rather happy he didn't try to dig any deeper into my personal life, and I almost took a mental deep breath until he said something that caught me off-guard.

"This lifestyle . . . it makes a person restless."

His tone, tired and worn, made those words sound so dismal. A true mercenary, Capt. Bernadette took his profession seriously, and he never seemed to regret the path in life he'd chosen for himself. However, in that rare moment, he sounded hopeless, torn, and introspective, like war veterans as they look back at horrible memories that they refuse to share. He sounded lose and hurt.

I could feel a lump forming in my throat as I willed myself to look up at him again. His head was tilted slightly to the side. "You know, you're very young to already feel that way."

"Captain, you can't be much older than I . . . possibly four or five years my senior," I reminded him.

He smiled softly. "A lot can happen in a few years, Lieutenant." His smile faded, and he looked me in the eye. "You know, you've seemed a bit distant ever since that night when things got a little personal between us."

I told myself to keep my head level. "Captain, I'm not trying to distance myself from you. A lot has been going on lately, so I've been trying to keep it all balanced . . .and I realize that's hurt my relationship with everyone."

He grinned. "Well, actually, I just wanted to let you know that if you ever need someone to talk to, I'll be glad to listen. I can tell you've been under a lot of stress, and it really isn't any of my business, but, you know, if you do ever feel like talking . . . we're not the best of friends, but there's no reason we can't talk."

Why was everyone being so nice? First Dempsey offered to lend an ear if I needed one, and now Captain Bernadette was being awfully kind . . . did I really look that worn-out? I hoped my face didn't truly show _that_ much about how I felt on the inside.

However, I put that thought to the side and got back to my discussion.

"Thank you, Captain. I'll keep that in mind the next time I'm having trouble keeping everything under control." I smiled, successfully pulling it off, once again, without showing the worry behind it.

He returned my smile with his own, then looked to the clock on the wall. "Well, I should get going. Take it easy, and don't do anything that could reopen those stitches, Lieutenant."

"I'll try my best."

He lifted from my bed, crossed the room, and closed the door behind him, leaving me alone, once gain, with nothing but the morbid reminders of my best-forgotten past.

* * *

**I lay back on my bed,** my crossed arms and pillowed beneath my head, as I counted the lumps on the spackled tiles of my ceiling. My legs overlapped at the shins, leaving me in the most comfortable position possible, considering the aching in my side. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting an orange glow to everything in my room. This brought back memories.

That same color, that same peaceful atmosphere . . . it was eerily reminiscent of times long before, when I'd been involved in a different war, with a different purpose. It reminded me of Dorian Lowell, a fellow private about my age who'd enchanted my heart . . . and broke it only weeks afterward out on the battlefield, with my arms around him. Such a memory had haunted me for a very long time; it took me months to put out the thought of his death even slightly. I suppose that was due to the immense amount of guilt I felt whenever I looked in the mirror.

To elaborate, I'll describe the circumstances of Dorian's death. He'd been critically injured, and I found him lying helplessly behind the crumbling remnants of a wall. With the lower half of his body missing, he was a bloody mess, and it was quite clear that his wounds were fatal. Still, that thought didn't want to sink in for me—I rushed to his side, telling him that I'd get help, and that everything would be all right.

Of course, I hadn't been able to save him—in fact, instead of running off to find a paramedic, I stayed at Dorian's side as one of his requests. He ended up dying in my arms. I decided to carry his body back to the rest of the troop, feeling a duty to make sure his body had a proper burial back home. On my way, I stepped on a grenade . . . and you know the story that follows.

Despite how the memories had plagued me before, I was surprised to remember them all of a sudden. Ever since I'd arrived at Hellsing, I'd somehow managed to put Dorian and everything involved with him out of mind. However, now that I was alone, without Vanessa to talk to—or even Monsieur Alucard—the memories were resurfacing. Perhaps it was from being abandoned . . . after all, I was only able to preoccupy myself with my own mind, which never proved to be a good thing.

I was still mulling over the reasons for my recollection when Walter walked into my room. "Good evening, Lieut. Aurelle," he greeted.

"Good evening," I sighed, trying unsuccessfully to sound cheery.

"Is something the matter, Lieutenant?" He sounded somewhat concerned, laying the food out on a tray as he questioned.

I shrugged. "No, it's nothing."

The light glinted off the lens of his monocle as he looked over to me. "Lieutenant, I've been around long enough to recognize a liar—especially a rather bad one."

I bit my lip. Right . . . lying was a bad thing, even when you really didn't feel like discussing something. "I'm sorry, Walter."

"There's no need to apologize," he assured. "If you didn't feel like talking, you only needed to say so."

"It's not that . . . I do feel like talking. I haven't had someone to talk to all day."

Well, here it goes. Maybe telling Walter would prove to be beneficial. After all, he seemed quite wise, and anything he told me would probably be objective.

"You see, Walter . . . well, I'm not very good at just lying around all day," I began, wringing my hands in an effort to remain focused and calm. "Also, I recently had a little . . . argument with Monsieur Alucard, so I suppose you could say that's been on my mind as well."

"How 'little' of argument did you two have?"

I stared down at the sheets, mentally tracing the wrinkles until I felt confident enough to answer. "He threw me out of his room."

"Oh." He was silent for a moment. "He must've been rather angry with you. He's usually fairly good at controlling himself while away from the war scene."

"Is there anything I could do to make him stop being angry with me? Should I apologize and just gloss over the details, seeing as I've no idea what set him off? Or, perhaps I should give it some more time—how long is he capable of holding a grudge?" I sighed. "I'm sorry. I can't imagine how pathetic I sound."

Walter grinned. "You're not pathetic, Lieut. Aurelle. Alucard can have quite the effect over people—especially females. This was probably out of your hands."

I exhaled again. "But . . . is there anything I can do to remedy the situation? And if we simply can't settle things, is there anything I can take to get rid of any urges to see him? Like antacids that just so happen to double as impulse-repressants, or perhaps some sort of sanity-inducing herbal tea . . . .?"

He chuckled. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but we've never felt the need to develop medicine that can offset the side-effects of deliberately spending time with Alucard. I believe you're the first one to suggest such an idea."

I shrugged. "Well, then I suppose I'll attempt to patch things up with him."

"That sounds like a splendid idea," Walter assented with a nod. He walked over to my bedside and placed a tray over my lap. "He'll be waking in less than an hour now, so you haven't much time to prepare—that is, if you plan on starting tonight."

"I do," I muttered softly, carefully lifting the lid and allowing the hot spray of steam to lick at my face. The food smelled delicious.

"Well, good luck, Lieutenant." I looked up to see Walter with his foot already out the door, and I quickly thanked him for the advice. The first thing I would do after finishing dinner—other than sprucing up in the bathroom—would be to visit Monsieur Alucard . . . and hopefully find a way to fix whatever went wrong.

* * *

**That dark, forbidding hallway **leading to Monsieur's room was even less inviting when I was alone. At times, I became paranoid of the soft scraping my slippers made against the rough stone floor—I would begin to listen and wait for an echo, almost certain that someone was following me. Of course, such an idea was ridiculous—hardly anyone traveled that deep into the mansion, and if there were any intruders in the Hellsing manor, I would've been notified already. Still, it was hard to stay calm.

Seeing as the hour was late, I hadn't bothered to dress myself formally for the occasion. I trotted—or gimped—down the corridor in a simple, white linen nightgown. Perhaps the most interesting detail was the dress's reminiscence of the Renaissance, as it had long, flowing, bell-shaped sleeves, and empire waist, and scoop-neck neckline. Other than that, my outfit was quite ordinary.

When I finally approached the large, concrete door bearing that telltale pentagram, I had to wait a moment for my heart rate to settle back down. I didn't expect to have any nerves—I'd managed to remain calm while talking to Monsieur numerous times before. However, I suppose the prospect that he'd blow up at me again, which I couldn't emotionally afford, somehow managed to scare the living daylights out of me. What would I do if he wouldn't forgive me?

_You'd be just fine_, I reminded myself. _After all, he _is_ a vampire . . . and it would probably be safer to avoid any more association with him than what was absolutely necessary. This can get you killed . . . remember?_

After one last time trying to mentally convince myself otherwise, I realized there wasn't any truly feasible way out of this mess. I raised my hand, folded it into a loose fist, and firmly knocked on the door.


	10. Not Exactly Graceful

_A/N: Gah! I know I told everyone that the next update would be snappy, and I swear, I had every intention of doing so. However, my teachers are evil. They load me up with homework--including over the holiday break, which I was planning on using to write for each of my fanfics. Instead, I had to work on an English project (where I had to keep a journal of a fictitious road trip to Florida in the style of The Canterbury Tales), a history essay, five still life drawings to complete for art, and an acrylic flower painting for art, too. So, I'm very sorry that this took so long, and if I can help it, the next one will be quicker. But please, don't be mad at me. Instead, please try to enjoy this much overdue chapter. Happy reading!_

* * *

"**Monsieur Alucard?" **I called after waiting a few seconds and receiving no answer. I lightly rapped on the door again, then pressed my ear up against the cold concrete in an effort to hear inside.

There was nothing. Just complete silence. I almost hung my head and walked away until I realized I was acting quite foolishly. Get a hold of yourself, Lieutenant. No dignified Hellsing employee would give up so easily, and even if I was only a mercenary, I was still employed. Besides, since when did I allow Monsieur to dictate my actions? He was going to speak to me, whether he liked it or not.

However, seeing as he wasn't answering his door, there was only one option left.

I gently leaned my cane against the wall, took a deep breath, and braced my hands on the door. The harsh, eardrum-numbing sound of the door scraping against the stone floor resonated throughout the small corridor—and, undoubtedly, in Monsieur's room. At least now my presence would be known.

After edging the door open enough for me to fit through, I replaced my cane back in my hand and carefully placed a foot into Monsieur's room. I mentally ran over the steps: say hello, demand to talk, and make up. If it failed, then at least I could rest easily, knowing I'd tried.

However, a huge kink implanted itself into my plan as soon as I entered his room. His red trench coat was draped over a chair, and his hat and glasses were resting on a small table. But he was nowhere to be found.

"He wouldn't be in his coffin, would he?" I wondered, however ludicrous it sounded. The moon was surely out by then, and Monsieur didn't seem like the type to oversleep. Besides, I could've sworn only weaker vampires—like those who hadn't drank in ages—had to sleep in coffins to preserve energy. Monsieur probably slept in his throne; he certainly wasn't a weak vampire.

_It still wouldn't hurt to look_, I reminded myself. As quietly as a person can manage while walking with a cane, I slowly gimped my way toward the coffin near the back of the room.

For such a cryptic piece of furniture, it was quite beautiful. Black and brilliantly polished, it was the perfect fit for someone as notorious as Monsieur. It also had a golden inscription on the lid referencing the Bird of Hermes, but I didn't feel like mulling over the connection. Instead, I gently leaned my cane against the wall beside the coffin and braced myself, knowing that this was going to be much harder than opening any door. I gripped the side, determined to simply lift it enough to look in.

It was empty. I sighed. What did I expect? I'd be avoiding me if I were Monsieur, too. After all, I did a very good job of avoiding_ him_.

_It's probably best this way, anyway_, I tried convincing myself, though there was still part of me that wished I'd been able to at least _try _to work things out. He may have been a vampire—a despicable, wicked creature of death and malevolence—but I had enjoyed talking to him. There was just something about him that made me want to trust him.

_Oh well. I suppose it was fun while it lasted._

* * *

**I shrieked**, unintentionally giving myself a heart attack as I whipped around. I didn't have enough time to figure out exactly what was behind me—it looked like one gigantic black blur as I tumbled toward the ground. My cane escaped my grasp and clanked against the stone floor, and I winced my eyes as I waited for my back to do the same.

However, the pain never came. Instead, I felt a slightly cold sensation wrap around my back, sinking into my skin and making me shiver. I opened my eyes and saw Monsieur, his red eyes uncharacteristically soft.

"I thought all French women were supposed to be graceful," he said with a faint smile.

He hoisted me up, but I was still preoccupied with how close he'd been to me, and how cold his arms had been. I had to shake my head before my thoughts rattled back into place.

"You just caught me off-guard," I said defensively. "I'm not exactly accustomed to having a vampire show up whenever I turn around."

His grin broadened. "I'll have to show up more often then."

I looked at my feet. "Actually, that's kind of why I came here. I'm supposed to be in bed right now, as you know, but this is too important to put on hold for another day . . . er, night."

"I appreciate your determination, but you really should've stayed in bed," he replied casually. "I was in your room mere seconds ago."

"Oh." So much for not feeling foolish tonight.

"However, it's nothing that can't be undone. We'll just head up there now."

I sighed. "But, I already came all the way down here . . . ."

"You'll need to go back upstairs eventually, won't you? Unless, of course, you truly had your heart set on sleeping down here with me."

I stiffened. "No, that's quite all right."

He smiled. "You're much more agreeable now, Lieutenant. My charm must be starting to wear on you."

"Can we please just head upstairs now?"

* * *

**It took a few minutes, **due to my haplessly uncoordinated gait, but eventually, we reached my room. I immediately headed for the bed, already worn from such a small amount of exertion. Monsieur stood beside my bed, staring me down and making me feel most uncomfortable. I quickly resorted to staring at my sheets, the moonlight dancing across the fabric as I deliberately avoided his eyes.

The last thing I needed to do was look at him and become sidetracked. I used to have such a stony resolve in the face of his tricks, but I really wanted to restore the openness I used to feel when I would talk to him. I also had a feeling my desire would do nothing to keep me protected from his relentless methods of seduction.

It didn't help that I'd expended all of my energy walking back up the stairs. It took strength to keep a guard up around Monsieur, and strength was certainly something I was lacking at the moment.

"It's been quite a while, hasn't it, Lieutenant?" His voice poured into my ears like liquid mercury, beautiful but highly poisonous. "Of course, I suppose it really hasn't been that long . . . but it does feel that way."

I drew invisible lines with my eyes over the creases in my sheets. "Yes, it does."

"I also understand why you waited so long; I was doing the same." I watched his shadow shift and sink into the wrinkles on my bed sheets. "However, I've missed you."

I gulped.

Luckily, he continued talking before I had time to reply. "I really wish you wouldn't make observations about me . . . at least not yet. You haven't known me long enough to truly know me. Our relationship is only on the outer levels of intimacy as well, so it's probably best you waited before forming an opinion of me. I may surprise you."

"Is that why you were so mad at me?" I folded and unfolded my hands, trying to stay calm under the constant pressure of his gaze. "Because I misjudged you. . . .?"

"You were beginning to grow too soft. I didn't want you to put yourself in danger," he explained. "So, I decided to react in a way that would surely drive you off. And it worked."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," I admitted. "You don't want me to be put in danger? Then why have you tried numerous times to seduce me already, when you're fully aware of how dangerous you are—especially to an angel, like me? Do you realize what would happen to me if something happened between _us_?"

"Lieutenant, I haven't tried to seduce you. All of the barriers in the world couldn't protect you if I truly wanted to just seduce you." I could hear the smile in his voice. "If you were just another human, I don't suppose I'd care so much. But you're my first angel. You're too special to simply seduce."

"Besides, aren't you the same lieutenant who told me that nothing would ever happen between us, for as long as your soul is in existence?" I looked up to see a smirk plastered across his lips. "If you're so sure that I'll never tempt you, what have you to worry about?"

I bit my lip. "I . . . I just don't want . . . wait a minute! I don't have to explain myself to _you_!"

I could feel my confidence beginning to return. "Never mind what I said before. Stop giving me those horrid bedroom eyes and licking your lips like I'm some sort of flesh-covered candy. I won't have it."

"Really now, Lieutenant?" He laughed. "Then tell me, what will you have? Because I'd love to have you admit what you _really_ feel about me."

I grimaced. "And what would that be?"

Suddenly, I felt a breeze brush across my face and watched as a blur rushed past my eyes. The bed began to sink under Monsieur's weight as he crouched over me, his face almost close enough for me to see the pores in his skin. His irises were amazingly vibrant and seemed to be made up of tiny beds of hot coals. I could feel the heat beginning to rush to my face as I realized there was no way for me to look away from him, other than to close my eyes. And I certainly wasn't going to close my eyes with Monsieur around.

"The truth of the matter is . . . you want me," he whispered in his deep, quicksilver voice. I tried not to take my eyes off of his, which wasn't very hard to do. "Underneath that cold, distant exterior that you try so hard to conjure, there is a passionate, fiery desire that burns hotter than the fires in Hell. It's just waiting for you to give in . . . and when you do, I'll be there."

I gritted my teeth and scrunched up my brow. "Get out of my room."

He laughed before returning to his feet, making a slight bow as he readied himself to pass through my wall. "I'm very happy we had this talk, Lieutenant. I'd say everything between us has returned to normal, wouldn't you agree?"

He was gone before I could return my witty rebuttal, which I probably wouldn't have thought of until morning, anyway. I simply sighed and resigned myself to taking a shower, something much needed after being so close to a vampire. All I had left to do now was get Vanessa to come back to me.

I had a feeling that wasn't going to be nearly as easy.


	11. To Feel Your Skin on Mine

_A/N: Sorry it took me so long to put this chapter up. I can't say when the next one will be uploaded, but as soon as summer arrives here in the States, I'll update far more frequently (school will be closed, after all). Anyway, hope you like it. Happy reading!_

* * *

"**Vanessa, you have got to be kidding me."**

I stood before my room's full-length mirror, examining Vanessa's handiwork with a skeptically raised eyebrow. Several curly tresses framed my face and a burgundy rose was strategically placed to the left side of a mass of curls, which was positioned like a high bun at the back of my head. I was dressed in a shoulder-less burgundy dress with short, poofy sleeves and a rather low cut. Atop the dress was a black corset; it's the perfect addition to any outfit when one doesn't feel like breathing. My face was left bare, save a slight touch of eyeliner and lip-gloss.

"Vanessa, there is no way anyone is going to take me seriously when I'm dressed like this," I protested as I examined the elongated black gloves that covered my hands. They were quite the change from my normal white gloves of thicker fabric.

"But you look so pretty. You'll fit right in," she chimed, clasping her hands together and twirling around in excitement. "I'm so glad we've been able to patch things up."

Well, at least that much was true. Despite my worriment, making up with Vanessa was a lot easier than explaining myself to Monsieur. Actually, _she_ apologized and begged me to allow her to come back. Apparently, living with the ever-sensitive Dempsey was too much for her, and she'd rather deal with that "annoying vampire" than her overly emotional boyfriend.

"Are you sure my going is even a good idea?" I ran my hands over the corset, wondering how long I would have to torture myself that night. "I'll be the only one there who still has a body."

"Relax. No one's going to mind." She stood silent for a moment before bursting out a squeal. "I can't believe how cute you look! You really ought to dress this way more often; you look like you belong back in the Victorian era."

"It would be kind of hard to order my men around in this outfit." I poked one of the curls hanging next to my cheek. "And anyone who tries fighting on the battlefield like this is just asking to die."

She scrunched up her nose. "Man, does your entire life revolve around war now, Soleil?"

"Well, in a way, it has to. I'm a lieutenant, remember? The only reason I'm even here is to—"

"I know, I know, help get rid of vampires. But can't you do it in a stylish dress, instead of those tired, old, conservative skirt-suits you're always wearing?" I shot her a glare. "Sorry. I guess I'm just feeling a bit nostalgic . . . you know, for the times when we could do whatever we wanted."

I gave a half-hearted smile. "I think everyone longs for those days."

I felt an ethereal wave of warmth wash over me as Vanessa hugged my shoulders from behind. She squeezed me softly, and I fought off the urge to cry. She surrounded me with the gentle heat of a thousand sun rays, which slowly sunk into my pores and fused with my soul. Suddenly, I longed more for Heaven than ever before.

"It can't be much longer, Soleil," she whispered with a smile. "Just keep your hopes up, 'kay? You need them for both of us."

I was just about to comment when Dempsey glided through my open window. He was dressed in his usual evening attire, consisting of a top hat, embellished cane, and late Regency-era clothing. As always, he looked polished and handsome.

"Good evening, ladies. Are we almost ready to leave?" he said with a cheerful grin.

Vanessa let go of my shoulders and floated over to him. She was also wearing evening-wear of a more affluent Regency woman. Her blond hair was up in a curly bun, and she wore a slinky, white empire dress with matching gloves. Dempsey seemed to be falling all over himself just looking at her.

"Yeah, I think we're ready," she said as she took his arm. "Come on, Soleil. The night life is calling."

"All right," I murmured. I checked myself over a final time before heading over to window. Hesitantly grabbing Vanessa's hand, I closed my eyes as I felt myself beginning to evanesce to the point of being pure spirit.

Before I knew it, we were out in the middle of London, lost in a sea of people whose faces all blended together into one giant pool of skin and eyes. I was only vaguely aware of the passing crowds as the people slipped right through my frame without the slightest flinch. Their eyes seemed cold and distant, their warmth—as well as my own—a faintly flickering memory.

Then, I felt someone's skin graze against mine, and I was pulled back into my body almost instantaneously. I had to look at my hands and make sure I still couldn't see through myself before I calmed down.

"Whoa. That was a close one," Vanessa commented from beside me, a concerned look on her face. "Any longer outside of your body, and I'm not sure you would've been able to return to it."

"Indeed. You ride on a very delicate boundary between life and death, as it is, Miss Soleil. Soul-traveling is convenient for us ghosts, but it's a very risky move for anyone who's still attached to the living world." Dempsey furrowed his eyebrows in thought. "Perhaps you should put our method of transportation aside for a while; it's much safer for you to travel like a human."

"I suppose you're right," I muttered as I continued to inspect my hands. "I think I'll just _walk_ up to my room when we get back to headquarters."

"Sounds like a good idea," Vanessa nodded before smiling vibrantly. "Now, let's get to that party!"

* * *

**We walked for a while before coming to an unadorned, windowless brick building.** The entire façade was fairly nondescript, but anyone attuned to the spirit world would be able to hear the loud clanking of glasses and garbled chatter resonating from the inside. There was a sign posted on the door that clearly read "For Rent," which made it the perfect hideout for a ghostly get-together. Just as humans like to associate bats and mice with abandoned buildings, vacant ones were breeding grounds for spiritual beings of all sorts—particularly, ghosts with no place to go and starving social lives.

"This is the place," Vanessa said gleefully, zipping through the closed door before I had a chance to respond. Dempsey followed suit, leaving me behind to open the door for myself.

The booming noise level quickly faded to dead silence upon my arrival. There seemed to be some sort of bar set up in the corner, and I watched as several ghosts dropped their mugs and hid behind the counter. Ghosts that had been recklessly dancing came to a halt, scattering to the back of the room in a translucent blur. Others hid beneath dining tables or behind one another, and one even tried hanging onto the light dangling from the ceiling.

"Nobody move," the bartender instructed as he carefully placed down a freshly polished beer mug. "And don't speak. She might pick up the vibrations in the air."

"Hey, it's cool," Vanessa assured as she approached the man at the bar. "She's with Demps and me."

"You mean she can see us?" A woman dressed in traditional Victorian evening-wear asked as she peered up from behind the counter. There was a hint of relief in her voice.

"Yep. Her hearing's pretty good, too."

"Oh, so this must be the Soleil you've told me about," the bartender said with a nod. His eyes searched me over, starting at my face and ending at my toes, and he gave a toothy grin. "Not bad . . . it's just a shame I don't still have a body—or that she still has hers."

Before I had a chance to reply with anything remotely intelligent, the bartender picked up another beer mug and announced that the party was back on.

For a while, it was fairly entertaining; I suppose most ghosts don't usually meet someone—alive—who can see them, so I was greeted with an overwhelming flurry of questions for the first hour. However, their fascination with me died off shortly after that, which left me to slink against the wall for the remainder of the party. Eventually, I resorted to twiddling my thumbs while counting how many times my thumbs made a complete rotation around each other. Well, it was either that or counting how many speckles dotted the ceiling, and that was about as impossible as counting the number of stars in the sky.

At some point, I decided it was best for me to leave. I found Vanessa and explained that I would go walk around town for a while, until she and Dempsey were done enjoying themselves. However, if I'd known what waited for me outside, I probably would've stayed at the party.

* * *

**The church seemed like a nice place to take a reprieve **from my overwhelming psychic abilities. It was nice to be able to see Vanessa, but it was hard to look at other ghosts sometimes; I always ended up thinking about what they were like while they were alive, and why they were forced to wander Earth for the remainder of time. A very small percentage of ghosts are here because they haven't crossed over; the majority is banished to Earth as an alternative to being banished to Hell. It was depressing to think about how many people don't make it to Heaven, especially since I believe we all deserve a second chance.

Anyway, a church seemed like a good spot to just forget everything. Ghosts tend to avoid holy buildings like churches, while they flock to graveyards and nightclubs. It makes perfect sense; a church is probably just a painful reminder of the place they'll never see. A graveyard is their connection to the living world—which is usually something they wish they still belonged to—and nightclubs . . . well, nightclubs are just fun. It's rare when I can find a place that isn't lurking with spirits, and when I do, I simply can't help myself.

I really didn't want to talk to anyone, living or dead, so I opted for a particularly run-down looking chapel a few streets away from Vanessa and Dempsey's bar hideout. The doors were boarded up, the stained-glass windows clouded and dark, and the paint on the decrepit sign near the front steps was chipping and faded, though there did appear to be the word "evangelical." I looked around quickly to make sure no one was watching, and I walked partly into the alleyway beside the church. It took a moment, but eventually I was inside the building, courtesy of last-minute soul traveling.

The inside of the church, without any light, appeared to be just as cheerless as the outside. I removed a glove and concentrated enough light energy into my fingertips to light a few candles, which were located around the large room on golden sconces. That took a lot out of me, so I took a seat on a nearby pew for few minutes while I absorbed the scenery.

Despite the building looking abandoned from the outside, the interior was still rather well kept. There were no visible cobwebs, and the pews all looked new and stain-free. There was no dust collecting on the carpeted floor beneath me, and the elaborate stain-glass windows looked freshly washed. Exactly how long had this building been boarded up?

_I suppose that really isn't important_, I reminded myself. _The important thing is I'll be able to relax here for a while, without interruption_.

That was when my eye caught on the front of the room. Near the back of the elevated floor, to the left of the podium, was a grand piano. It was glossy and black, and upon further inspection, the keys looked practically untouched. Before I knew it, I was sitting down on the small stool, my fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys, and I truly felt at home.

It had been so long since I'd played, but suddenly, it was as if I'd never stopped. The notes began flowing out of me, fueled by both nostalgia and relief. They floated upon the air and echoed off the small church walls, drowning me in music until I was no longer aware of my surroundings. The candles, the pews, the stain-glass windows . . . everything faded until it was just me and the piano, engulfed in a sea of forgotten dreams and the happiness of days long passed.

I found myself playing Chopin's "Tristesse," one of my favorite compositions to both hear and play. It gave words to my feelings without having to speak any language, and for the first time since my death, I felt whole again. Before this piano, with my fingers stretched wide and prancing over cold ivory keys, I was truly in my element. I was exactly where I needed to be, and I hoped to God I'd never have to leave.

However, I knew I would, and by the end of the song, I was beginning to regret coming to the dilapidated church in the first place. All this did was give me false hope of returning to my old ways of life, before the war, before I died, and before I became this embittered, distant, vampire-hunting lieutenant. I hadn't always treated others with such cold and refined manners, but was boisterous, loud, and unforgiving in my love for art. I had stage presence, not military rank. God, how I wished I could trade.

* * *

**I recoiled from the keys**, staring at my hands until I felt like I was going to cry. I fought off the urge and turned away from the piano, my head resting in my hands and my mind not wanting to face all that waited for me outside the church ever again.

"This was your true calling." I knew the voice, but I couldn't place it. I heard the blunt thump of footsteps across the floor, then felt the weight of someone's gloved hand at my bare shoulder.

"Music and enriching the world . . . that is what you were originally meant to do. It was all planned out, and it was designed to work perfectly," the voice continued, and suddenly, I knew whom it belonged to. "But you threw a wrench into the plan by pursuing the military. That's why you're stuck here, killing off lowly vampires alongside warmongers and undead monsters."

"That's what I've been told." I didn't look up, but kept my face hidden in my hands. "I wish I could go back . . . I miss it so much."

He was silent for a moment. "I know you do."

I hesitated, but I eventually looked up. There was Monsieur, standing far above me, his thick black hair in its normal messy fashion and warm red eyes staring down at me. He was wearing his usual evening attire, and he looked all the more dangerous in the soft lighting of the church candles. It seemed that everywhere he went his aura of temptation and darkness changed his surroundings to fit his needs—even while he was in something as sacred as a chapel.

His signature smile was missing, its substitute a thin, solemn line. "You miss it more than life itself, don't you? If you could float around Earth forever as an unseen angel, but allowed to play music and sing all day, you'd be more than content with your life—or lack thereof."

I attempted to smile. "I hope that doesn't offend you. It's not that I don't like you—"

"No, you _don't_ like me. I understand, and I'm fine with it." He grinned. "It would be far too complicated if the feelings were mutual, believe me."

Despite how much I wanted to explain that I did like him (at least a little bit), I disregarded the comment and decided to continue discussing the issue at hand. "Could you really tell all of that just by hearing me play?"

"Of course," he replied. "Music begins in our hearts. It speaks a language that transcends intellectual knowledge; to understand it, you must listen with your soul. When you play, the piano becomes imbued with spiritual energy, and it becomes a medium with which to translate our hearts into something tangible. While you channeled Chopin's incurable sadness, you were also expressing your own regret and longing. This allowed you to take such a classic piece and transform it into something beautiful and unique—all while respecting the original composition."

I stared blankly for a moment before I was able to process everything. "I take it you enjoy listening to music very much, don't you, Monsieur?"

"Yes, I do suppose you could say that." He must've noticed his hand was still on my shoulder, for he tensed slightly and removed it. "Why aren't you at that ghostly gathering with your other dead friends?"

I didn't even bother to ask him how he knew about the party. I decided it was best if I didn't always know the extent of his knowledge concerning my life. I really didn't need to know if Monsieur was actually some perverted stalker; I had a hard enough time making friends, so I really didn't feel like losing any. So, I just answered.

"I would love to spend more time with Vanessa, but sometimes, it's hard when she's around other ghosts. I have a hard time relating to people who've been dead for five centuries."

He laughed. "Actually, I think you'd be quite surprised at how well you relate to certain people, Lieutenant—especially those who've been dead for a few centuries."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "I wasn't talking about you, Monsieur. Besides, my getting along with you is probably just the result of a defect in the fear-processing compartment of my brain."

"That, or your insatiable desire to experience the forbidden." He leaned in closer to me then, making me edge back in my seat until my back hit the piano. He gently slid the key cover shut and placed his hands on the cover, his arms on either side of mine. His face was far closer than I would've liked.

"Any closer, and you'll have an eye full of spit," I threatened, getting my mouth ready to launch a hefty wad of saliva if needed.

"I won't go any closer," he promised with a smile, his eyes sleepily half-opened. "I'm just trying to fulfill my own selfish desires, though only partially. If listening to your heart race and taking in your scent is all I can do, then so be it."

I told myself I shouldn't ask, but I couldn't help it. "What exactly would you like to be doing?"

He widened his eyes, a dubious look within them. "Do you really need to ask, Lieutenant?"

"Well, I suppose not, but . . ." I sighed, though that didn't stop him from continuing.

"I'd like to feel your skin on mine."

* * *

**I begrudgingly felt my heart skip a beat**, and by the tone of his chuckling, he'd heard it, too.

"For quite a long time, it was considered impolite for a woman's skin to be touched by a man. The slightest touch would taint her purity—that is why men used to wear gloves, at least in the beginning. By the Victorian era, it became a fashion statement. Now, it's reserved for organizations like Hellsing, which deals with too much blood for someone to not wear gloves."

I spoke slowly. "So, you just want to know what my skin feels like?"

"Yes. It's been a very long time since I've held warmth myself, and you're positively seeping with it."

"Well," I gulped, "then why don't you just take off your gloves?"

"I can't. Without them, I'd become unbelievably lethal. I'd have to seek authorization from Integra to remove them, which she only allows during battle."

Every fiber of my being was telling me to stop it, to reverse my thinking, and to get the hell away from him. However, for some odd reason, I just didn't feel like listening that night. "I could take off mine."

His facial expression didn't alter. "I won't force you."

When I didn't move for a good, long moment, he decided to. He pushed himself up from his leaning position and began to make his way down the aisle between the pews. Again, my mind was telling me to quit acting so stupid, but I was too busy being stubborn to listen.

"Wait."

He stopped, but he didn't turn around until I'd caught up to him. I could feel his eyes on me, watching me intently, as I nervously slid off my gloves. I studied my bare hands, wondering why anyone would want to touch the dry skin that undoubtedly resided there. Then, I held my breath and stretched my hands up toward his face.

His skin was smooth and cold—unnaturally cold, to tell the truth. It almost felt like he was absorbing small amounts of my body heat through my hands; my palms felt like they were holding one gigantic block of ice. However, once I saw how his entire body relaxed, I couldn't make myself tear my hands away. There was something about that innocent expression, the nearly tangible nostalgia as he looked at me, that made me want to keep my hands there just a while longer.

He lifted a hand up to mine, traced the back of my palm until I could feel my face turning red. Then, he closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into my palm, holding my hand there with his own as he kept his thoughts conveniently to himself.

_I knew I should've applied a bit more lotion today_, I scolded myself. _Just when I decide to skimp on the moisturizer, I need it._

_Your hands are perfect the way they are_. The softness of his tone and slightly raspy nature of his voice echoed inside my head. _Your fingers are long and slender, the mark of a true artist. And your warmth . . . it's beyond anything I'll ever feel within myself._

_What are you doing?_ I asked him bluntly, no longer affected by the intimacy of the current moment. _I shouldn't be able to hear you inside my head_—_and you shouldn't be able to hear inside it, either._

_Your barriers are useless when physical contact is involved._ I looked at his face, which reflected none of the thoughts he was currently exchanging with me._ Can't we discuss this later? This is such a beautiful moment_—_I'd hate to ruin it._

I snatched my hands away. "That's enough."

"Yes, I suppose it is," he agreed, though there did seem to be a hint of sadness in his voice. I hurriedly put my gloves back on and had one foot out the wall when he said, "Thank you, Lieutenant."

I bit my lip, wondering whether to respond. I quickly decided against it and soul-travelled outside the church, heading toward the ghosts' bar at record speed. I was already trying to put the entire experience behind me, even though it was all I could think about for the rest of the night.


	12. TV Screens and Blood Deals

_A/N: S__orry it took me so long to update! I've been working on another fanfiction, as well as focusing on my deviantART account . . . so this story ended up getting put on the backburner. However, I still hope you like it. Happy reading!_

* * *

_**Several days later . . . .**_

The stars flickered outside my window and the moon bathed the world in her glorious light as night approached me once again. I sat up in my bed, my sheets still folded neatly beneath me, as I plowed my way through _The Odyssey_. My hair was up in a messy bun, my thick-framed glasses in place, and my face freshly washed and dried. I was wearing some striped flannel pajamas, which were a muted grey and black, and my legs were crossed under the spare pillow on which I'd rested my laptop. It was just another ordinary night in the life of yours truly.

I was so absorbed in Odysseus's tragically heroic tale that I hadn't noticed Vanessa was in my room. So when she turned on the television, which blared at a volume not unlike an air raid siren, I nearly had a heart attack. My beautiful hardcover edition of Homer's masterpiece went flying into the air, and I tumbled off my bed in a most ungraceful manner.

Of course, all Vanessa could do was laugh, which made me even angrier. However, I supposed it was my fault for leaving the television so loud before I'd turned it off, so I decided not to turn my anger to action. I simply gathered up my book and sat back down on my bed, determined to read through the Greek epic for at least the twelfth time.

"Wait, Soleil. You've _got_ to see this!" I tried ignoring her, but just like my alarm clock, she only got louder. The only disadvantage was Vanessa, _unlike_ my alarm clock, didn't have a snooze button.

I apathetically glanced up at the television screen, nearly yawning in the process. When I actually saw what was on the screen, I panicked.

"Turn that off!"

Vanessa stuck out her tongue.

"Oh, _real_ mature, Vanessa. Now turn it off!"

"You can't make me."

I was seething. "Don't make me come over there."

She waved the remote control in the air. "Is this what you want?"

"You know damned well it is."

"Then why don't you come get it?"

I don't think I've ever gotten out of bed quicker for anything in my whole life. I launched myself at the ghost, screaming a bloodthirsty battle cry along the way. She squealed and crouched down, making me trip over the remote as she held it near the floor. She quickly tried to get back up and run for the other side of the room when I reached for her leg. This time, I was actually able to grab it.

She collapsed to the floor. The force of impact with the ground knocked the remote out of her hand and propelled it to the complete opposite side of my room. I began trying to crawl for it when she tackled me and proceeded to pull my hair. I was just about to flip her off of me when I heard those fateful heavy footsteps coming toward me. Soon enough, I saw those trademark black riding boots staring me in the face.

I looked up to see Monsieur Alucard watching me with a smile. "Do I really want to know?"

"I just want the remote," I said between breaths.

"Oh, this thing?" He dangled it high above me, grasping it loosely in his right hand.

Vanessa eyes lit up as she lurched forward. "Hand it over, fang boy!"

He completely ignored her. "What purpose does this device serve you, Lieutenant?"

"I want to turn off the T.V.," I said with an edge of frustration in my voice. "Honestly, do you really have to ask so many questions? Just give it to me!" I waved my hand above my head, ready to grab the remote when the time was right. Vanessa was still on top of me, determined to get the remote before I did.

"Actually, I think I'll just watch a little T.V. myself," he said as he walked over to my bed and sat down. Vanessa jumped up and sat in her normal spot in my armchair, excited to watch exactly what was bothering me. I simply retired myself to my fate and slowly trotted over to my bed, giving her a glare along the way.

By now, you probably expect me to explain what was on the screen. Although I'd rather not, I suppose I should, in order to keep up my reputation as a decent storyteller:

"_In other news, today is remembered with some sadness in both France and the United States," the newscaster reported. She had long, wavy brunette hair and wore a lavender skirt-suit paired with too much lipstick. "One year ago, music lost someone who will surely live on a legend—not only to her fans, but to her platoon as well."_

"_Soleil Devereux, formerly known as "Kylie Winters," was pronounced dead on this date one year ago, after stepping on a grenade hidden in the sand on the battlefields of the Middle East. The brave musician stood in for one of her friends, Jason Shorupska, who she saw as too young to serve. Shorupska has since resumed his place in the military, but Ms. Devereux's actions will not be forgotten._

"_Not only did she risk her life to save Jason's, but she performed various acts of selflessness toward her fellow privates. She was only twenty-three at the time of her death, but she rose quickly in the music world. In tribute to Soleil Devereux's bravery, our news station would like to take a few minutes and show this memorial."_

_The female newscaster disappeared and was replaced by a slide show to the tune of a soft piano instrumental. Various pictures of the celebrity flashed across the screen in slow motion, giving the viewers time to analyze each detail of the dead star caught on film._

Vanessa grabbed the remote away from Monsieur, who sat on my bed in what looked to be disbelief. She flipped the channel to one of the music stations. Live footage of one of Kylie Winters' concerts blared on the screen. The star jumped around on the stage while the audience danced in hysteria; the crowd sang along with the devotion of a Labrador retriever to its owner, and the musician paused every once in a while to allow her fans to sing for her. Most eye-catching, however, wasn't Kylie Winters' performance, but the fire that danced in her copper eyes, like the mesmerizing flicker of a bonfire or the stunning beauty of a forest consumed in flames. A true passion for life—for music—made her skin glow, as if illuminated from within by captured sunlight.

The screen switched to one of Kylie Winters' best-known songs, accompanied by a black-and-white music video. It was a tragic tale of love long dead but not forgotten, and the star's voice swooped and soared with such haunting beauty, angels themselves would be jealous.

This particular angel, however, couldn't muster up any envy. Much rather, I felt my heart crumble into a thousand, razor-edged pieces. It had been so easy to just tune out my memories about my career, about my past life in general. I'd gone months without thinking about the tours, the recording studios, and the crazed fans. The adrenaline rush I used to get from singing in front of thousands—millions—of people had been replaced by the blood-boiling stresses of an army lieutenant. It wasn't my dream job, but it worked.

Seeing myself on that screen changed everything. The stony mask I wore every day, my dispassionate remarks and apathetic glances, my pretending that murdering vampires was what I'd always wanted to do—all of that vanished when I saw her. Kylie Winters, the girl with fire in her eyes, the musical prodigy whose voice captured every heart and whose grace won over even more men . . . that girl used to be me. And it killed me that I'd never get to be her again.

"I can't watch this anymore," I murmured in defeat, trying desperately to uphold my composure while fighting back tears. I shifted my eyes back down to my book, but my desire to follow Odysseus on his adventure had faded. All I wanted to do now was . . . honestly, I didn't know.

* * *

**Vanessa must've sensed the change in my voice**, for she switched off the tube and curled up next to me on the bed. I looked over to see a faint smile still playing on her lips. "Soleil . . . I thought it would make you happy."

Something inside me broke. I felt the blood rush to my face as my shoulders tensed and eyes narrowed. "You're right. Seeing the best days of my life flash before me on some screen . . . being reminded of the _hell_ I've been thrown into. Yes. That _should've_ made me happy. Something is obviously wrong with me, if I dared to think otherwise."

She blanched, but quickly recovered with enough frustration to match my own. "That's not what I was talking about. I thought it would make you happy to know there's people out there who still care about you—you know, ones who are still alive and not involved in all of this shit."

"I don't need reminding."

"Really? Because lately, it seems like you do. All you do is mope around, looking in the mirror like you're face-to-face with the most hideous thing on the planet. Then, if you're not sulking, you're trying to force everything out by reading some crusty old book."

I opened my mouth to protest, but she continued. "Don't act like what I'm saying isn't true, Soleil. You forget that I've known you longer than anyone. I see things others don't notice because they think it's normal behavior for you—but it's not, and it frustrates the hell out of me."

"You think _I'm_ frustrating?" I felt my eyebrows draw in close. "How about living with someone who claims to be your best friend, but who leaves you alone every night to go partying with other ghosts, while you're stuck here with some vampire and an old butler! How's that for frustrating?"

"I didn't think you cared! Hell, you told me go some of those nights. You told me to go enjoy myself, that you were too tired and stressed from work to be any fun." She quirked an eyebrow. "Were you _lying_?"

"Of course not! I tried once, but my lips cramped up and I ended up mumbling like an idiot. It's some sort of built-in anti-sin mechanism for the partially holy and living-impaired." I sighed. "I _was_ tired and stressed, but I still wanted to talk about it. I just thought you'd rather get romantic with Dempsey than listen to me gripe and moan."

"Aww, Soleil!" Vanessa's emotional side was beginning to show through. The anger drained from her face and was replaced by a trembling bottom lip and maudlin tears. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and bawled.

"I love your 'gripe and moan' sessions! It's the only time I feel like . . ." she sniffled, " . . . like I'm useful. You're so strong, smart, and . . . accomplished, and I'm just some rave-loving, loudmouthed ghost. I feel like I shouldn't . . . shouldn't matter to you!"

I rolled my eyes and shook my head, but I still patted her back. "'Nessa, you always matter. You're all that matters."

"Is that so? And I thought we were beginning to grow so close." I peered up to see Monsieur playing spectator. He seemed to be quite amused by our blatant displays of affection—especially on my part. I, on the other hand, was starting to feel nauseous.

Vanessa let go of me and turned to glare at him. "Who gave _you_ permission to watch me snivel and whimper?"

"I believe your master did, when she allowed me to walk into her room without protest." He shot me one of those sickeningly suggestive smirks, and I felt my upper lip curl into a sneer.

"For the last time, I'm—"

"Not her master," he finished my sentence with surprising accuracy. "I know. I simply can't find a more suitable title."

I was just about to respond with something witty when Vanessa cut in. "Well, I've got to get going. Dempsey wants to take me to this really swank restaurant, and afterward, I think we're taking a moonlit stroll in the park." She beamed with all the brightness of the stars before giving me a guilty look. "You don't mind, do you, Soleil?"

I smiled. "Not at all. Have fun for me."

She squealed, wished me a happy evening myself, and rushed outside through my closed window to search for her otherworldly boyfriend. Once again, that left me alone with Monsieur.

* * *

**Against my better judgment,** I granted him a smile—though it was so small it barely curved my lips upward. "What brings you to my room this time?"

He rose from the foot of my bed and walked over to the side, peering down at me from his ridiculous height. Despite his hungry smile and greedy eyes, he kept his distance, remaining on his feet instead of sitting down next to me. "The same thing that brings me to your room every night."

I arched an eyebrow. "Oh? What could that possibly be?"

"The aching desire to feel your blistering hot blood swim down my throat, fusing with my ancient veins and making me want to moan in ecstasy."

I forced the bile back down and resisted the urge to twitch. "I'm sorry I asked."

He let loose a deep, rumbling laugh, the vibrations sending shockwaves across my skin. "You know that isn't the only reason, Lieutenant. Being near you is also a great way to make sure my libido is up and running."

That bile was getting harder to choke down. "I'm not interested in the health and maintenance of your sex drive, Monsieur."

"You have no idea what you're missing out on, then." His unrelentingly seductive smirk deepened. "My sex drive could do wonders for that stress you complain about with Vanessa. One night in physical euphoria, and all of that tension would just wash away."

"Funny. The last time I shared my bed with someone, I remember feeling even _more_ stressed out than before."

"Captain Bernadette is a human—hardly capable of such a monumental feat as female satisfaction. Besides, you didn't exactly consent; if memory serves me right, you were beyond wasted."

I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks just thinking about what probably went on that night. Monsieur must've noticed my embarrassment, for he chuckled. "Don't look so uneasy, Lieutenant."

I focused on the sheets in front of me, rather than look in his eyes and know what he was thinking. "I'm just not comfortable discussing this topic. I don't have any recall as to what happened that night with the captain. I know he didn't rape me, but . . . that's the only thing I see when I think of . . . intercourse. Just agony, despair, and humiliation."

"It's nothing like that." I looked up at him, expecting that hard, glassy, sex-crazed glimmer to be present in his eyes. However, any semblance of that glimmer had been replaced with something unknown. "There will be no further discussion on the subject, Lieutenant."

"Thank you." I darted my eyes back down to the sheets, uncomfortable with what I'd seen on his face. "So . . . what would you like to talk about?"

Of course, we shifted from one discomforting topic to the next. "I'd like to hear your opinion of Kylie Winters."

I drew in a deep breath and stretched out my fingers, which had been locked in a fist for quite some time. "She was your average girl-next-door. Full of life, extremely optimistic, with a gorgeous smile she shared with the world at any given chance. She had her problems, but they never seemed to be important enough to be given much thought. Instead, she focused on all the great things in her life—like her dreams, her boyfriend, and her father's honor."

"What happened to her?"

"She died." I hesitated. "I'm never going to be like her again—even if I wanted to, it just isn't possible. Not after everything I've seen, everything I know. Kylie Winters is dead—and in her place stands Lieutenant Lynette Aurelle, vampire hunter extraordinaire."

"That's no reason to be ashamed. Lieut. Aurelle is strong, perhaps stronger for being Kylie Winters in the first place." I peeked up at him, and there those eyes were again, filled with that indescribable emotion. Then, his red irises began to dance with joy. "How many aliases do you have, exactly? Soleil Devereux, Kylie Winters, Lieutenant Aurelle . . . is there ever a need to have so many names?"

"You forgot one." I grinned. "I'm also known as Every Vampire's Worst Nightmare."

"More like their wet dream." He leaned forward, resting his hands on my mattress and he stared me down. "You wouldn't stand a chance against me in battle."

"Don't be so sure," I warned. "I could take you."

"I'd love to take _you_, if you'd let me."

I grimaced. "I wasn't talking about sex."

"Who said I was talking about sex?" He smirked. "For an angel, you certainly have your head lodged rather securely in that gutter."

I gawked then snapped my mouth shut and pursed my lips. "You know very well your tone of voice and emphasis on 'you' would lead anyone to believe that—"

"If you're positive you can take me, why don't you prove it?" Even though he completely ignored what I was just saying, I didn't care. Instead, I changed the subject as swiftly as he had.

"What are you suggesting? That we duke it out in my bedroom?" The entire idea sounded completely ludicrous.

"What a marvelous thought. This room is the perfect size—large enough to allow distance, but too small for you to hide." When I arched an eyebrow and crossed my arms, he flashed his glinting white teeth. "You're not afraid, are you?"

"I've _never_ been afraid of you."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

I sighed. "Fine, but only under these conditions: neither one of us is to be armed, we can't physically harm one another, and if I win, you have to tell Sir Integra I beat you."

I was almost blinded by his toothy grin. "Of course. However, if I win, I want to celebrate my victory with 500 milliliters of your blood, courtesy of your neck."

My heart locked up in my chest, making Monsieur laugh. "Don't look so frightened, Lieutenant. It's the same amount you would be expected to give for a donation." He leaned in toward me, his face far too close to mine. "Besides, you can 'take me,' remember?"

My hands clenched into fists. "I _can_ take you."

"Then take me." He straightened himself and walked over to my bureau.

Opening the doors, I half-expected him to rummage through my things when he placed two monstrous handguns on top of my books, which were stacked at the bottom. He must've carried those around with him at all times, hidden beneath his gigantic, red trench coat. Speaking of his trench coat, he removed that as well, hanging it over the back of my spare dining chair. All that left were his signature charcoal-grey vest, white undershirt, red tie, black pants, and glossy riding boots. Oh, and those gloves he can't seem to take off.

I gazed at him dubiously. "How do I know you're completely unarmed?"

He flashed me a grin, his bedroom eyes back in place. "You're welcome to frisk me."

The last thing I wanted to do was have him derive some sick pleasure from my searching his body for concealed weapons. "I think I'll pass."

With seemingly no other choice, I stood from my bed, made up my sheets, and walked over to Monsieur in my thick-framed glasses and flannel pajamas. I still wasn't sure if this idea was a good one, but I'd already agreed to go along with it. All I could do now was fight him.


	13. The Long Awaited Battle

_A/N: This is one of the quickest updates I've had so far, so I'm quite happy with myself. Hope you enjoy it, and happy reading!_

* * *

**We took our stances at opposite sides of the room**, Monsieur in the corner near my bathroom and me next to my nightstand. I made sure my mental wall was fortified for attack, just in case Monsieur tried searching my mind for my next move. Then, I ran through a checklist outlining my defense tactics and offensive strategy, both of which relied on my special abilities as an angel. If none of that worked, I had a back up plan, but I hoped I wouldn't need it. After all, it was very risky, as I'd never exactly tried it on anyone before—let alone a vampire.

"Are you ready?" His slightly raspy-yet-smooth, unsettlingly deep voice broke me from my thoughts. I nodded, and with a broad smile, he charged at me.

I accidentally took a second to blink, which caused me to lose him. He suddenly appeared before me, his hands pressing my arms stiffly against the wall. I knew better than to struggle. Instead, I closed my eyes and attempted to soul-travel through the wall. Slowly, I sunk clear through the insulation and found myself in the hallway outside my room, the polished hardwood floors freezing beneath my bare feet. I took a quick scan of the area around me, just to make sure no one was watching, and ran through the wall before Monsieur thought I'd ditched him.

To my great dismay, he was waiting for me when I reappeared. His smirk told me he knew exactly where I was the whole time. Then, before I had a change to react, he unleashed his first round of attacks.

I stood in stupefied awe as unfathomable darkness swallowed my room, like a whirling black hole sucking me into a distorted alternate universe. I glanced around frantically, trying to find a way to make this illusion stop, but there was nothing but black. Then, I latched onto two sparkling eyes staring at me through the inky shadows, a broad grin sprawling out from beneath them. My first reaction was to back up and retreat, but I ended up bumping into something that soaked through my shirt. I looked down to see my arms splattered with something resembling liquid tar. The substance began to spread and I spun around, hoping to find the cause of this disgusting mess. Again, just black.

"You're not even trying." His voice rang through my head like church bells during a funeral service. I wanted to stomp on his toes . . . and I would, if I could just find him.

"Come on, Lieutenant. I thought you could take me." That unmistakable smirk creased his voice. "Show me what a bad vampire I've been."

"I have a feeling you'd like that all too much," I grumbled. The sludge on my arms felt like it was seeping into my pores, causing my skin to ache and burn. I wanted to wipe it off, but my hands were already covered, the slimy gunk dripping off and forming a puddle beneath my feet. "What the hell is this?"

"One of the perks of being a true undead."

The muck began stretching across my chest and streaming down my legs, oozing through my clothes and weighing me down. I was left immobilized. "I've never seen a vampire do this before."

"Then you've never met a vampire before me."

Lurid images danced before my eyes: rooms slathered in blood with corpses littering the floors, the rotting skin crawling with maggots and dead eyes staring up into emptiness. Seconds taken out of war scenes, still frames of chests being ripped apart by bullets and tortured screams of men being obliterated under air raids. Thousands of lifeless impaled soldiers forming an unholy forest, the ground below them a mixture of dirt and blood. The burnt remnants of a girl lying in an infirmary, her eyes glassy and unblinking, her body shrouded in gauze, her arms and legs missing completely . . . .

"Get out of my head!" My voice sounded so far away, and I was barely conscious of my knees hitting the floor. I gripped my head with my hands, somehow able to move again despite the sticky mess still clinging to my skin.

"You disappoint me, Lieutenant. I expected much more from you."

That was it. I sought out the energy from every light source within a 250-kilometer radius, allowing it to build within me until I felt ready to burst. All grew silent just before my room exploded in white. The cold darkness that had previously engulfed my room was replaced by heat and light . . . and suddenly, all felt right again. This was my element, inside of this everlasting comfort and warmth. It was the same warmth that fills Heaven to the brim . . .the same warmth that flowed through _me_, at every moment of every day.

The gunk evaporated from my skin, allowing me to regain my footing on solid ground. At this point, I expected Monsieur to be passed out, lying on my floor somewhere. An angel's light energy sourcing has two capabilities: if the victim is human, they will become permanently blinded as punishment for challenging an angel; if they are something stronger, they will become temporarily incapacitated. I'd never used light energy sourcing before, but the stories I'd heard from others while in Heaven gave me all the information I needed. Never before had a failure occurred, so I was certain that my attack worked and I'd already won the bet.

* * *

**I was quickly proven wrong.** As I was walking around my room, searching for Monsieur's body as the whiteness began to dissipate, I felt a sharp pain sear through my stomach and knock me down. I looked up to see a vicious hellhound snarling in my face, all eight of its eyes a fiery, merciless red. The dog was easily twice my size, with pitch-black fur and a mouth full of intimidating, razor-sharp fangs. Even its paws were massive.

The beast snapped its jaws at me, making me jump to my feet and sprint in the other direction while I thought of my next move. I wasn't expecting Monsieur to shape-shift . . . actually, I wasn't expecting him to even be _awake_ after my energy sourcing. This threw a major monkey wrench into my plan.

Midway through my scheming, I felt something snag onto the left leg of my pants and yank me backward. I smacked into the ground in a most ungraceful manner and heard the fabric of my pajamas tear as I was thrown into the air. My back collided with my room's hardwood floor, the wind knocked out of me while my head began spinning off its axis.

I opened my eyes when I felt cold, thick dog saliva dripping onto my face. I wiped at the sickening drool and slid out from beneath Monsieur, more determined than ever to beat him.

"Were you _trying_ to rip off my leg?" I spat, glaring at the abominable dog with more fury than I'd ever shown Monsieur before. When he just growled, I continued, "We aren't to harm each other, remember? In case you had trouble comprehending that rule, that includes making sure my legs remain intact!"

The dog barked at me before trying to head-butt me in the stomach again, which I barely dodged. Luckily, being an angel gave me enhanced speed and flexibility; otherwise, I wouldn't have stood a chance against such a formidable undead.

I was able to hold off the mangy mutt until the intense light completely faded from my room, giving me a chance to put my next skill to the test. I waited until the hellhound was just about to crash into me and split into doubles. I did a rather impressive job, too; it was nearly impossible for me to tell the difference between me and my light- and heat-energy created twin. Our moves were independent of each other as well, so my opponent couldn't watch and see which one moved first.

Just as I'd hoped, Monsieur ran at the conjured version, slipping through the image as if it were a simple hologram. He seemed confused, as if shocked that I could outwit him, and promptly began heading for the real me. Then, just as he was about to bite at my leg again, I disappeared, thanking God once more for the gift of invisibility-on-command.

He began sniffing around for me, so I decided to act as quickly as possible. I quietly tiptoed toward the center of my room and began thinking of the most beautiful tune in existence. My mind latched onto the song used by guardian angels to lull their humans to sleep each night. The words, which are sung in a language long forgotten by humankind, are unheard by human ears, but their effect is certainly felt. No other lullaby—in Heaven or on Earth—has such a soothing effect.

Yes, that composition would work wonderfully. Without giving it another thought, I opened my mouth and began singing.

While I was alive, I was blessed with a spectacular voice. I'd been discovered while I was still a teenager, and fame was almost instant. Before I knew it, my name went international, and I began playing shows all across the globe. I had fans in countless countries, and there aren't enough words to express how thankful I was to every one of them. I was living my dream, and it seemed like it would never end . . . .

Anyway, since my death, my voice has gained unimaginable purity. I caught myself humming while in a bookstore once, and everyone within the store—including a hardened biker in a studded leather jacket—began crying. Consequently, I tried keeping my musical urges to myself, especially while on the training grounds. A blubbering bunch of soldiers was the last thing I needed.

However, I was perfectly comfortable with making Monsieur fall asleep—in fact, I was planning on it.

* * *

**It didn't take long for the ferocious hellhound ****to curl into a ball on the floor**, its eight eyes drowsy and quickly closing. The dangerous pup lay sleeping next to my bed, and for a moment, it almost looked adorable. Then, it morphed back into the Monsieur I was used to seeing. Instead of adorable, he looked peaceful. I almost felt guilty, knowing I'd have to wake him.

My guilt was quickly replaced with joy as I realized I was victorious. I slowly crept toward Monsieur's slumbering form, stretching down a hand to gently nudge him awake. Unfortunately, as soon as my fingertips touched his arm, a gloved hand seized my wrist and threw me straight across my room. My back struck my bedroom door, causing the door to shudder on its hinges and pain to flare down my spine. Seconds later, unnaturally cold hands seized my arms. My feet lost their touch with the floor, and I eased my eyes open.

I found myself staring straight into those dreadful bedroom eyes.

Rather than laugh in my face, he walked over to the foot of my bed and threw me down. My back connected with the bed's creaky mattress, my body bobbing slightly as the metal springs tried to absorb the impact. He crawled on top of me with his face at its closest proximity, his hands on either side of my arms, his legs straddling mine. My skin prickled and eternal organs forgot their functions. I may not have been adept at battling vampires, but I knew that close-range fighting was a death wish.

"Your voice is eerily haunting. Oh, and that light show was rather impressive, too." 'Light show' my foot. "However, I think we both know what happens next."

I gritted my teeth. "No, I don't think you do."

I placed my hands lightly on his chest and closed my eyes. Hopefully, I wouldn't regret this later.

* * *

**Foreign memories flooded my mind**; full of people speaking a language I couldn't comprehend. Pictures of a stone-faced father and loving mother, a cement cell with a small boy huddled in the corner, his face drenched in tears. The scene switched to the same boy several years older, finally free of the unjust imprisonment, but not relieved. Intense anger and hatred made my throat tight, with an undercurrent of insurmountable sorrow bogging down my heart. Seconds later, I found myself staring at an expanse of blood-soaked bodies staked on what appeared to be iron spikes, then the body of a gorgeous woman lying dead on a river bank. The memories culminated in the boy, now in his forties, being surrounded by his enemies, about to be beheaded. However, just before the decapitation, he slid his tongue across a pool of blood on the ground.

I snatched my hands away as my eyes flittered open. I could feel Monsieur's eyes on me, but I didn't have the stomach to look at him. Instead, I pushed the unsettling visions from my mind and carried on with the fight. It was time to use some of Monsieur's tricks against him.

I was about to shove at his chest when he lifted from my bed on his own. I tentatively looked into his eyes to see raw horror glossing over his blood-colored irises.

"What did you do?" I'd never used that technique before, so I was unsure if he'd feel it. Apparently, he had.

However, I was in no mood to explain; I just wanted to win, and I wanted to win now. I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and stepped toward the middle of my room. I tried concentrating, but I couldn't help being distracted by an unpleasant feeling inside my bones. It felt like the bone tissue had been replaced with hematite and the marrow with lead. My veins stung and eyes burned, my entire body somehow the same weight as an SUV.

Any rational person probably would've taken these as warning signs, perhaps to tell me that something went wrong with my last move. However, all rationality was lost on me at that moment; I pushed the pain and strangeness aside, ready to attempt energy sourcing again.

I decided to concentrate the light energy into the palms of my hands instead of throughout the room, hoping to hurdle the burst of light at him when I'd finished. I cupped my hands and began draining from my surroundings, but what grew in my hands wasn't light. A spiraling orb of shadows began expanding, with illusionary bats forming out of the darkness and fluttering around my room. I tried changing my method of extracting, but shadows continue to pour out from my hands. Gigantic cockroaches and centipedes came next, emerging from the blackness and crawling toward Monsieur.

I swallowed a scream that began welling inside my throat and dropped the vile ball, my hands shaking and mind whirring. The shadows began to evanesce as suddenly as they appeared, and I went cold.

"What did you do?" He asked again. This time, I was too afraid to answer. That must've made him angry, for he began walking toward me with a sour expression and tense shoulders.

He went to grab my arms when I sunk through the floor effortlessly, no soul travelling needed. I rose up behind him and pushed against his back, surprised to find that it sent him stumbling forward. He spun around, aggravation still written plainly across his face, and I faked a smile. He grunted and went for my arm again, irritated further when I swiftly avoided him a second time. I anticipated a scream when, instead, he turned into that horrid dog once more.

Forget outrunning him. Seeminly on instinct, I did something that almost felt uncontrollable. My skin tightened and heart rate quickened, and suddenly, I found myself on all fours, my body replaced with that of a black panther. I was nearly as big as the hellhound, though I was sure I didn't have nearly as many eyes.

Monsieur growled at me, to which I promptly hissed in reply. The world blurred as we went at it, our actions too fast to clearly remember. Frankly, the only thing I remember is morphing back into my normal self, Monsieur beneath me on his back, my hands on his chest. I was nearly out of breath and a thin film of sweat covered my forehead, but I was relieved.

"I won!" I could hardly believe the words as I spoke them.

Monsieur, on the other hand, didn't believe it at all. "Are you sure?"

I was about to respond when he placed a hand on top of my right. I looked down to see blood leaking through his charcoal grey vest, smearing my own fingers in crimson. I gasped and tumbled off of him, staring at my hand in shock.

"If I recall correctly, neither of us is to be harmed." I saw him sit up out of the corner of my eye. "Isn't that right, Lieutenant?"

I was so completely dumbfounded that I almost forgot how to speak. "But . . . but I . . . I beat you," I stammered.

"Actually, I'm afraid you scratched me. You were quite the hasty panther, thrashing about violently without any true strategy." I didn't have to look to know his lips were caught in a smug smile. "I think it's best if you stick to being an angel and leave the shape-shifting to the professionals."

I curled my fingers into fists and crossed my arms, peering up at him through narrowed eyes. "This isn't fair. You're not even really hurt."

"Of course not." I watched as the blood vanished from his vest and the rip from my claws disappeared. "However, you still drew blood. You would've forced me to forfeit if I'd done that to you."

I wanted to protest, but he was right. That's exactly what I would've done. Still, I kept my squinted eyes locked on his sickening smile, my own lips in a taut grimace.

He laughed. "This truly bothers you, doesn't it? I admire your confidence; you really thought you could beat me."

"I did beat you!"

"Not according to your conditions." When I didn't say anything further, he let loose a soft, rumbling chuckle and got to his feet. "Now, it's time you held up your end of the deal."

I shot him a glare when he reached his hand down to help me up. I stubbornly rose to my feet on my own and headed toward my bathroom, resisting the urge to stomp and slam the door behind me. I angrily twisted the faucet on and squirted some soap into my hands, roughly washing the blood from my palms as I grit my teeth. I'd never been so humiliated in my life.

I returned to my bedroom in a huff, re-crossing my arms and begrudgingly walking toward him. "Let's get this over with."


	14. Blood and Broken Glass

_A/N: Sorry this took so long to update. I've been working like crazy on my deviantART account, so I haven't had much time to write anything lately. Anyway, I hope this was worth the wait. As always, happy reading!_

* * *

"**Do you mind if any blood gets onto your collar?"**

"What do you think?"

I stood facing Monsieur while he sat on the edge of my bed. Due to his overwhelming height and my merely average stature, he decided there was no way to comfortably drink my blood if we were both standing. He'd have to bend down at an odd angle and I'd probably have to stand on my tiptoes the whole time, and that was even less appealing than just letting him feed off me. So, I stood between his legs with one of his hands at the small of my back and the other holding the back of my head. My own hands were placed strategically on his chest, my fingertips barely making contact with his vest's material as I tried to pretend I wasn't actually touching him. This was all just a horrid nightmare, from which I would promptly wake at any given moment.

"You're too tense." Thankfully, his mouth was still far away from my neck. We were conversing in our normal manner: his crimson eyes were studying mine, and I was busy looking at anything but him.

"Well, I'm not exactly comfortable." _Stupid panther claws ruined everything_.

"That's understandable. This is going to be a very intimate experience." My throat constricted at the thought of intimacy with Monsieur, my heart thundering in my chest. He must've heard it, for he continued with a faint whisper, "Don't worry, Lieutenant. I'll be gentle."

"That's very . . . considerate." From anyone else, that might've come off as sarcastic, but Monsieur was well aware of my inability to lie (he certainly loved bringing it up, anyway). I stared nervously at my hands, trying to count the number of wrinkles lining my knuckles. "Just . . . try not to let anything get on my shirt, okay? I can fix the tear in my pants, but blood stains are difficult to get out sometimes."

"You have my word." He began lowering his mouth to my neck. "Now, just stay calm. I won't take long." Rather than staying calm, I tensed in anticipation.

The sensation of his cold lips grazing my skin sent shivers quaking down my spine. He didn't bite down right away, but seemed to be having fun soaking in my body heat; he simply let his slightly parted lips brush across my jugular, which made it extremely hard for me to resist squirming. He roamed the same vein for a few moments before moving slightly upward to focus on my carotid artery, still not biting down but forcing me to endure the soft pressure of his lips against my skin. He pressed down on the area just beneath my jaw, about midway between my ear and chin. The thought of my pulse throbbing against his mouth made me want to dissolve into the floor, yet I knew I couldn't do anything about it. I'd made a deal and lost. Now I had to live with it.

However, I was strongly considering breaking my promise as soon as I felt a sigh escape his lips. The mixture of hot breath and cold lips instantly doubled the discomfort level, and I felt my muscles lock up as I tried not to scream. His hand traveled up my back as he pulled me in a little closer, and the instinctive urge to knee him in the groin was overwhelming. I was just about to order him to get off me when I felt his lips return to my jugular, his teeth finally sinking into my skin.

I tried to ignore the strange, soft sigh that pushed past my lips as I felt myself relax. What I thought would be agonizing and unbelievably revolting was actually—I'm sorry to admit—quite enjoyable. I attempted to focus on my surroundings, desperate not to get caught up in the moment, but it was futile. My eyes closed against my will and I found myself reveling in the forbidden pleasure.

Various images floated in front of my closed eyes, each attached to a different emotion. I watched as a deep red rose bloomed in fast-forward, the scent of spring flowers and sun-kissed Earth flooding my nostrils, the taste of ripe fruit and crisp water washing over my tongue. I watched as sleek purple silk ran across my skin, engulfing me in rich luxury. I felt the phantom memory of fierce longing as a lover's mouth closed over mine, our lips pressed hard and bodies swelling from the scalding passion. My heart fluttered with joy as my arms were filled with a baby boy, his little body cradled in fine cloth, his large eyes akin to mine in their color and shape. Then, I nearly fell to pieces as I felt my father's strong arms wrap around me, always ready to hold me while I cried or just there to let me fold myself against him. I was so small in his embrace, but just knowing his arms were around me made me feel ten feet tall . . . .

* * *

**I gasped as Monsieur retracted his fangs,** his mouth slowly lifting from my neck. The sensation of my father's embrace vanished as quickly as it came, and I felt tears slipping down my cheeks in spite of myself. It had felt so real, and I hadn't been ready—I'd never be ready—for it to be gone. I tried to summon those feelings again, but they seemed to be trapped somewhere deep inside—somewhere I would never be able to find on my own.

I jerked away from Monsieur, wanting to retreat into myself while I tried to make myself forget. I stumbled and fell to the floor; I guess I should've known I'd be lightheaded, but that hadn't seemed important. I curled my legs up to my chest and hid my face in my knees, desperate to appear resolute while I tried to stop my seams from ripping open. Maybe if I just sat there long enough, he would leave.

Of course, that didn't work. I heard the blunt thump of his boots on the hardwood floor and felt him staring down at me as he stood before me. I wanted him to say something with biting wit, like how wonderful my blood must've tasted, or comment on how my pajamas accentuated my body . . . anything that made sense. I didn't want him to crouch down in front of me and put a hand on my arm. I didn't want him to tell me that he was sorry for something he couldn't control. I didn't want him to move my arms from in front of my face, as if they were feather-light, and examine my tear-stained face with soft crimson eyes. I didn't want him to stroke my cheek with the back of his hand to comfort me.

But he did.

I wanted to tell myself that the contact was repugnant, that I was being contaminated by his undead touch. I couldn't. I just sat there and let him whisper sweet things that were completely unlike him . . . that is, until I realized he thought he'd hurt me.

I gently moved his hand from my face. "You didn't hurt me. I . . . liked the way it felt."

His eyes grew large. "Are you some sort of demented masochist?"

"Of course not! . . . .Wait, it wasn't _supposed_ to feel that way?" I ignored the tears drying on my face and tried to reorganize my thoughts. The entire blood exchange was magnificent . . . and now he tells me it should've been otherwise?

"You should've felt your veins burning as the blood left your system, and the area around my fangs should've stung like hell."

"Well, that certainly isn't what it feel like." When he still looked at me like I belonged in a straitjacket, I decided to explain. "I saw a rose blooming, smelled the glorious scent of spring, felt fine silk on my skin, and . . . was in my father's arms right before you stopped. There was no burning or pain at all."

His eyes didn't seem to accuse anymore, but their curiosity heightened. He sat in silence before asking, "Did you see a child?"

It was I who grew suspicious now. ". . . Yes, a darling baby boy. I held him in my arms." I paused. "Did you see the same?"

He rose from the floor and turned his back to me, slowly trotting over to my open window. He gazed out at the stars for a while before turning back to me. "Good night, Lieutenant."

"You're . . . leaving?" I hoped I sounded more shocked than disappointed. "But it's hardly past ten, and you always stay until at least midnight. Besides, you still haven't answered my question."

He kept his eyes away from mine. "You need your rest. If you still feel woozy when you wake, take an extra dose of vitamin B12. There should be tablets in your medicine cabinet."

He still hadn't answered me and I knew he was avoiding what was truly bothering him, but I was too tired and unfocused to pry. "Of course. _Fais de beaux rêves_, Monsieur."

"Thank you, but I don't dream." With that, he vanished through my wall.

His mood swings were as typical as a teenaged girl's, so I just figured it was something else he was too afraid to discuss. I rose to my feet and slunk over to the bathroom, trying not to look at my neck as I added ointment and bandaged it up. Then, I crawled into bed and, after a most eventful night, fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

**Just as Monsieur predicted**, I was quite woozy when I woke in the morning. I had a feeling he'd taken more blood than he'd intended, for I'd given blood before and never felt so weak afterward. Then again, I'd also never given a blood donation to the mouth of a vampire, so it may have been a standard side effect. In the end, I decided to put last night out of my thoughts for the remainder of the day and ask Monsieur that evening.

Unfortunately, Monsieur didn't show up that night . . . or for the next _few_ nights, to be perfectly honest. You probably expect me to say how I was very concerned and crept down to his room one night for an explanation, but to say such things would be lying. In fact, I was too busy coping with the effects of our mock-fight to worry over Monsieur's current emotional state.

As you may recall, as a last resort, I placed my hands on Monsieur's chest and closed my eyes, shortly thereafter seeing various memories. Well, that technique is common among fighter-type angels and is referred to simply as "downloading." By touching any part of my opponent's body, I can conveniently copy many of their abilities and (rather _in_conveniently) their memories. This explains why I was suddenly able to shape-shift into a black panther, as Monsieur has many form-morphing capabilities (and now, so do I).

However, there is a slight chance that something will go wrong when downloading. If the opponent is imbued with enough darkness and negative energy, there's the possibility that some of my own abilities will be overrode. I think that is what happened when I tried summoning light and came up with darkness. Luckily, it's said that such side effects are usually temporary. So, needless to say, that isn't what got me worried.

What worried me was something far more serious. Upon waking the morning after our mock-battle, I found my eyes to be abnormally sore, especially when I looked over to my window. That wasn't so bad (a problem easily fixed with sunglasses), so I just continued with my normal routine. Unfortunately, when Walter brought in my usual breakfast, I found myself unable to ingest the meal. Everything I tried to swallow ached my throat horribly, including the orange juice I cherished so dearly. I didn't want Walter to know I was having a problem, so I dumped the leftovers into the wastebasket in my bathroom and disposed of them later that day. At that point, I was just hoping I had a sore throat.

Of course, you know that it wasn't just a sore throat, don't you? Well, I'll explain, anyway:

When I came in that night from the training grounds, I was exhausted. I decided to skip my usual bubble bath and simply washed before going to bed. Monsieur probably wouldn't be up to see me, so I wasn't planning on staying up late. I just needed to scrub that sickening gunpowder smell off my skin, and I could sleep in peace. It all sounded very simple.

And it all appeared to be simple until I washed my face. The water seemed to scald my skin as soon as I held the rag up to my face. Completely bewildered, I emptied the bathwater and looked in the mirror, only to be stunned. The skin on my face was a crisp pink, while the rest of my body was its usual pale pigment.

"I'm . . . sunburned?" I'd been on the training grounds dozens of times without even getting a tan, and now the UV rays decided to roast me. None of this was making any sense . . . until I looked at my neck.

My skin was stained with the jagged outline of his teeth, dark purple bruises surrounding the sickening wound. The common belief that vampires only leave two, discreet holes is a preposterous lie; the entire side of my neck was a bloody mess (no pun intended). The irregular tears in my skin exposed my dermis, which appeared deep maroon, slick, and shiny in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

_Would a vampire get sunburned?_ I shook my head.

"I'm just delirious from lack of sleep. That's not even close to the way it happens," I told myself in an effort to remain rational and calm. Even if I wasn't entirely convinced, I knew my current condition wouldn't allow me to act logically; if I stood on my feet any longer my knees were going to give out. So, I resorted to just concerning myself with my crispy skin.

Growing up with fair skin gave me the advantage of knowing exactly how to care for a sunburn, though I never thought I'd get one while in perpetually moist and overcast London. Regardless, I always kept a spare bottle of aloe vera gel and some vitamin C tablets in my medicine cabinet, just in case. Honestly, who wants skin cancer?

Anyway, I popped a few tablets, slathered my face in gel, and washed the muck from my hands so I'd be able to apply antibiotic ointment to my neck in a sterile manner. Again, I tried to step outside of myself while I held the gauze in place and taped the hideous wound up, but I still knew that it was _my_ neck. Hopefully, I would be able to just lie down and forget anything had happened.

. . . .Yet again, I'm sure you won't be surprised if I say I wasn't able to just lie down and forget. However, you should also know that I'm still going to rant about it for a few paragraphs, anyway:

I was just about to leave the bathroom when I remembered I left the small window above the bathtub open (it's quite nice being able to smell the fresh air while soaking in suds). I sighed and turned on my heel, almost stomping back into the blasted room out of pure frustration. Luckily, I was too weary to stomp, so I ended up dragging my feet. I eased myself into the tub, pulled down the pane and latched the top, which made me think (like anyone would) that I was now done. Then, it happened.

Before I had a chance to turn around and exit the tub, I heard a loud crash and covered my face as the windowpane shattered. My feet and arms stung in random places, and I knew the shards had either lodged into my flesh or just cut me. This mildly painful sensation was trumped by an agonizing rush of blinding heat to my left shoulder, which knocked me to my feet and caused me to thwack my head on the faucet. My eyes blurred over, hot tears swelling over and streaking down my freshly-gelled cheeks. My eyes were too hazy for me to see clearly, but judging by the object that seemed to be jutting from my shoulder, I guessed I'd been hit with an arrow.

I wiped at my eyes and tried to push myself up to my feet, only to find my entire left arm immobile. It took a little longer, but I managed to stand up and walk out of the tub using just my right arm. I immediately ducked afterward as an entire slew of arrows shot through the broken window and rained over me. One collided with the mirror on the medicine cabinet, causing the fragments to fall with a clatter in the sink. Another broke the glass light above me, pouring a shower of sharp, angular pieces of glass onto my bare skin. Another flew into a framed picture of a dove holding an olive branch in its beak, which I had positioned near the doorway. Countless others followed, though I'd made it into my room before they could hit me.

My knees ached from crawling across the hardwood floor with raw skin. I collapsed rather ungracefully in the middle of my floor, praying that no more arrows would burst through my bedroom window. A few minutes passed and nothing happened, so I decided to reassess my environment. The bathroom was covered in glass and blood, thick streaks of red and crimson handprints marking my path from the linoleum to the hardwood of my bedroom. My towel was barely there, but I was too weak to crawl over to my closet. My shoulder was throbbing unbearably, the skin around the arrow beginning to turn a sickly black.

I wanted to call out for Vanessa, but I knew she wouldn't hear me. I'd let her go out with Dempsey that night to some fancy dinner party, and they wouldn't be back for a few more hours. Running out of options and my consciousness becoming thin, my thoughts wandered over to Monsieur. I repeated his name in my mind, a faint whisper that grew softer with each syllable, until I could no longer hold my eyes open.

* * *

**I woke to the sound of my name** weaving in and out of my ears. I cracked my eyes open to find Monsieur crouched down before me, a hand resting on my uninjured shoulder. His body's core temperature usually mirrors that of a cold compress, but for some reason it seemed to match my own. Rather than ponder over how much blood I must've lost to be that cold, I tried speaking.

"Monsieur." It was the only word I was able to force past my lips before my vocal chords locked up. My control over my own movements was beginning to falter, as my eyes started to close again.

"Stay awake, at least until I get you to the infirmary." He was just about to wrap an arm around my back and lift me up when I protested.

"They aren't going to know . . ." I gasped for breath ". . . what to do. The archer wasn't human."

"Well, you've obviously been poisoned." I looked over to find the black had spread down to my elbow, my arm beginning to feel distant from the rest of my body. "What else do you have in mind?"

"This poison was used . . . in the first heavenly war . . . against angels." With each new syllable, speaking became more difficult. "It can be cancelled out with . . . demon or fallen angel's blood."

He was silent for a moment before loosening the wrist of his shirt and rolling up the sleeve. Next, he stripped off his glove and tossed it aside, leaving me lost and confused. It didn't sink in until he'd raised his wrist to his mouth and tore open the skin. He forced the dripping the wrist in my face, his own blood still staining his lips.

I looked up to him with pleading eyes, begging for any other way. He wasn't even a true demon or fallen angel. How did he know this would even work?

When I recoiled, he scowled and shoved his wrist even closer to my mouth. I still turned my face away, making him grit his teeth. "Goddamn it, Lieutenant. Forget your fucking pride and let me help you."

Hesitating for the final time, I brought his wrist to his mouth and choked down his blood. Nausea began to swell in the pit of my stomach, threatening to boil over with each gulp of the thick, cold, coagulated mess. I pretended not to feel the veins beneath my tongue or the sour metallic taste on my taste buds. I just focused on the pain pounding in my shoulder, which seemed to lessen with each drop I managed to swallow down.

I pulled away the second I felt the arrow completely recede from my skin. It fell to the floor with a blunt clank before dissipating into a veil of black mist. This left me stranded in a sea of shattered glass and smeared walls, the taste of Monsieur's blood still fresh on my lips. My vision blurred and I became unable to hold down a single train of thought, my mind wandering all over the place while my grasp of reality slowly dissolved.

The next thing I remember is being nestled in Monsieur's arms as he rushed down the hallway, unsure of my destination but content enough in the semblance of safety to let myself sleep.


End file.
